Underworld: Prohibited
by himawarixxsandz
Summary: How do you get someone to love you? Tell them they can't. DISCONTINUED
1. Teaser

The Roaring Twenties—the nation has made it final. Alcohol is prohibited throughout the country.

Rather than uniting, the division line becomes clearer. Those who approve, support the law.

Those who disapprove find every way to break the law.

In neighboring cities, one that never sleeps and one blown about by the wind, there lies an underworld.

An underworld that is filled with glamour and intrigue as much as it is filled with blood and death.

Where breaking the law is not only expected, but necessary.

Here, the Prohibition has served not as a deterrent, but as a propeller.

Humans will always want what they cannot have.

The more you forbid it, the more they will fight.

* * *

_A/N: Don't kill me for this. I will definitely finish this AU, though, unlike Rule and Enslaved. I swear I will. Even if the plot bunnies develop rabies and kill me, and even if writer's block collapses on me, I'll finish this AU, I swear. But even if I have chapters prepared to post, I won't post any further than the prologue until Unveiled is done. _


	2. Prologue: City

Prologue: City

In the darkest of dark nights, after the streetlamps had been lit, just as the time reached witching hour, a tall figure could be seen easily walking the sidewalks, his hands leisurely in his pockets. He was walking with such a relaxed demeanor, that one almost expected him to be humming a cheery tune. Even at this hour, and even with his intimidating physique, this man seemed so harmless that even a lost child would be able to find the nerve to ask him to guide them home.

As he reached the end of the block, he placed one hand upon his fedora, tipping it from his face, and letting the streaky yellow light shine onto his stonily colorless expression. He adjusted his pinstripe suit and looked right and left, even though the streets were as empty as the emotions playing on his face, and continued to stride easily through the dark.

It wasn't until he'd covered five more blocks that he tipped his hat down once more, until the brim was covering his face fully. A second man soon appeared on the scene, coming out from an alleyway between two of the many towering buildings around them. The second man looked nervously at the first, holding his hands up quickly, as if to appease him. When the light reached this man's face, it showed that his eyes were hugely guilty.

The first man didn't say a word. He merely held out his hand, as if demanding something. The second man's hand dropped to his sides. His legs were itching to turn and bolt. The first man cleared his throat and tipped his head, murmuring almost soundlessly. He curled the fingers of his outstretched hand twice. The second man shook his head profusely. The first man sighed and whipped out something shiny, black, metal, and highly lethal. He pressed the opening into the second man's forehead.

And pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the silent night as shockingly as the bullet went through the second man's body. It'd all happened in seconds—the man had hardly any time to think about his impending death. As the man fell onto his back, the first man tucked the gun back into his suit and then knelt beside him, rummaging around in his victim's breast pockets. When he straightened, Shizuka Doumeki held up the two small cubes to the dim streetlight. "Knew it," he said tonelessly, voice lilting with an infinitesimal accent. "Loaded dice." He knelt again and this time, pulled out wads of cash that'd been stuffed haphazardly into the pockets of the man's pants. "Yeah. Think this is mine." He looked back down at the corpse. "'Night." And with a tip of his hat, Shizuka Doumeki strolled away. Relaxed, and easily.

* * *

_A/N: Bonus points and a cookie if you can guess the whole situation with the dice and the money and the proper term for it. Hint: This came to me because our eighth grade play was Guys And Dolls._


	3. Wanted

Chapter One: Wanted

Within the walls of a perfectly inconspicuous building, tall and touching the sky like every building beside it, two men were convened. They were speaking in a room with exactly one door, and exactly no windows. The lighting was poor, and the air was only warmed slightly because of the tight insulation—otherwise, it'd be freezing, exactly like the winter air outside. There was a table between the two. The man behind the table had his long, black hair tied back, fedora perched squarely on his head, while his companion on the table's other side had clouded blond hair and glasses, the fair hair contrasting starkly with his dark hat.

Ashura Ou straightened his tie, and drummed his fingers upon the table. His eyes flickered from Yukito Tsukishiro's golden ones to the table and back. They'd both been waiting for nearly half an hour since breakfast and there was still no word. "Where's he at?" Ashura said quietly, a slight foreign slur covering his words. "He was supposed to be back by now."

Yukito licked his lips and looked over his shoulder—to the open, empty doorway. "I do not know," his accent was more familiar—a city accent, a tough accent that was at odds with his soft voice. "All I know is that he told me he was going to shoot crap, and would not be back until the early morning. But now I am thinking…" he glanced down at his watch and back to Ashura with frowning lips.

"That he might not have won?" Ashura raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Doumeki always wins. Even when he does not want to. And who does not ever want to win? He will—"

"He can lose. Once. Like that one time, remember?" A perfectly smooth, delicate, unaccented voice entered the room, along with its owner. The blanketed body of Kamui Shirou sat at the table between the two gangsters. He smiled tiredly and put his hand lightly on the briefcase. "That was a good one, wasn't it? Three times the one I got last week, and it was barely over an hour." His bare legs dangled over the edge of the table, and he held the white sheet around his otherwise naked body.

"He didn't lose," Yukito said reassuringly. His eyebrows furrowed and he leaned in toward Kamui. "It wasn't long, but was it hard? You look tired. You can go back to sleep—you know that the boss doesn't like you overworking yourself." Kamui glanced at him with narrowed eyes and shook his head slowly, almost thoughtfully.

Ashura's head perked up, his eyes glued to the doorway. "Finally." They turned in time to watch Doumeki ease into the room and slap the neatly rubber-banded wads of green bills onto the table, in the space beside Kamui's thigh. As Ashura picked them up to count, Doumeki raised one eyebrow at Kamui, and shrugged, pulling out a chair from the side of the room and plopping down on it.

"So you won? Again?" Kamui asked, walking from the table to Doumeki, perching on the edge of his lap precariously. "Because last night, I could've sworn I heard a gun shot go off, and I thought it might've been you. I thought you'd lose this one."

Doumeki blinked lazily, wearily. "No. I won. But he was nervous, so he used loaded dice. He wouldn't give 'em up, so I had to track him down afterward. He died, but I got the loaded dice and the dough. Done deal, fair play. You had a tough night?"

"It wasn't even two hours," Kamui said, yawning. "And I got three G's for it. He has a wife and she's older than all of us four put together."

"Ain't that grand?" Doumeki put his hands behind his head, and leaned back. "I'm knocked out. Tell 'im I'm catching up on sleep. I will not probably be up until after lunch, but I will be shooting crap again the night after. I can help around tonight. Kamui, d'you…?"

Kamui had gone back to the table, and was resting his head against his palm. He raised his eyebrows and looked bored. "No. Not tonight. Unless th' boss surprises me with a new set. But you don't remember? Tonight's _that_ night. I probably will have someone special, then. Th' boss will choose."

"We're going to Kazeshi tonight, Doumeki," Ashura said, snapping the briefcase shut from placing in Doumeki's addition. "Th' boss has bimonthly business to attend to there. If all goes well, we will be back here in three days, meaning you will have to miss your plans for the night after."

Yukito looked up at the ceiling, his head tilted back, as he leaned against the table, hands steadying him. From the corner of his eyes, he peered at Doumeki and shrugged one shoulder, smiling. "I hear that the crap has floated to Kazeshi. They are new. If you're lucky—which you always are—you can whip 'em out of ten G's or more."

Doumeki made a sound of consideration. "Should I get him now, then?" Kamui said, looking to Ashura with the large, childish eyes. "He'll sleep until we have to leave if I don't. And as Doumeki said last week, the heat is on. If we don't make the pass to Kazeshi at the pinpoint, then we'll be caught." He looked to Yukito. "Isn't that right? Your boss is getting it, too?"

"Seishiro will manage," Yukito smiled complacently. "The police have been remaining in Kyoringo for the most part, so Kazeshi is easier dealt with at these times. Even being here for a week to escort you fellows has been hard on me. I've never had to be this high on guard back home."

Kamui looked miffed. "Th' boss is as capable as th' Maestro. He's acquired four more this week alone. Sakurazuka better have the dough ready if he is to buy from th' boss. We don't come cheap and every time this month I am requested from your group, I always am the prize for a new one—overexcited and stupid."

Ashura sighed with a resigned smile. "It might change. Go wake him."

* * *

Kamui padded through the room, closing the double doors behind him. The room was filled with plush carpets and tables—treasures and antiques that went past the time the country was even formed. The curtains were still drawn, and the figure breathing silently on the bed was still fast asleep. He dropped the sheet that'd been covering him on the floor and climbed onto the bed.

"Are you intending to sleep like the dead through the day?" he asked, swiping away the blond hair to unearth a soft, pale ear; his fingers caressed the piece of flesh and his mouth touched low near it. The figure beneath him squirmed restlessly and a voice as airy and boyish and clean of any accent as Kamui's own began to speak.

"Get off of me." Kamui rolled off, and leaned back against the silken pillows, as the figure arose from the cascades of blankets that'd, until a moment ago, been cocooning him. Fai Fluorite yawned, sitting up and stretching his arms up into the air, the sunlight glinting against the satin stripes of his pajamas. He looked sleepily and pleasantly at the naked young man beside him in bed. "Good morning."

"Good afternoon would be more appropriate." Kamui looked at him sarcastically and slid from the bed, walking to Fai's wardrobe. Fai watched the prostitute slide his hands over the handles of the wardrobe's painted white doors, before opening them slowly, the tendons of his wrists protruding as he did so. Kamui leafed through the various suits and hats, pulling out a pair of breeches and a white shirt that looked at least a decade or two outdated. "Could I borrow this for tonight?"

Fai clapped his hands together and smiled broadly. "Actually, I think that'd be perfect. The newbie Seishiro's having you serve used to be a paperboy back in the day. I think he'll love to reminisce. After all, I always thought you looked the paperboy sort. You would have made a wonderful one." He heard Kamui snort in a rather derisive manner, as he began pulling the clothes on.

"Who is this new one?" Kamui looked round at his boss.

"Can't break the rules now, can I?" Fai smiled, clapping again as he motioned for Kamui to spin around slowly in a circle, once he was dressed. "Especially since I'm the one who makes them. You'll find out tonight, anyway. And we all love surprises."

Kamui dug around the wardrobe a bit more before flinging a Gatsby onto his head. He stepped in front of the white full-length mirror on the wall beside the bed and winced. "I look like a newsboy. I look like a child. The newbie will want to do a man who looks like a woman, not a child, unless his mind is intensely perverse."

Fai extricated himself from the bed and crossed the wide room, standing beside Kamui so their reflections were shoulder-to-shoulder. He gazed at their mirrored selves. "No. I think he'll love you. Anyhow, those clothes bring memories back, don't they? We could reminisce all day."

Kamui's eyes hardened. "Memories that shouldn't be remembered. Memories unworthy of being reminisced over." His fingers subconsciously drifted to the tip of the Gatsby, brushing against the rough cloth. "Why would anyone want to remember what we've been through?"

"No reason," Fai began unbuttoning and slipping out of his clothes, diving into the wardrobe for a change of his own. He smiled as he took out an entirely black suit, gloves, a thick piece of cloth and a fedora as sky and as blue as his own eyes. "I wasn't serious. I don't remember myself. You probably remember more than I do—and ever will."

Kamui narrowed his eyes as Fai adjusted his lapels for a final time and fitted the fedora over his hair, bringing the swirling, pale strands to hurricane around his face. "This is my way of bringing in back-ups. You know and remember perfectly well. I had it worse. I can't get rid of it. You're just lucky you've got Ashura."

"That I do, and that I am," Fai tilted his head in a backward fashion in order to playfully wag his eyebrows at Kamui. "Besides, you're far more wonderful than I am. You do everything better. And Ashura only does it as a sort of…brotherly favor to me. He looks at us equally, but I think he's always liked me just a bit more. That's all."

"Hm." Kamui rolled his eyes. "Brotherly. That's a right way to exploit the word. Anyhow, I can do without for just as long, if not longer, than you can."

Fai stepped up to Kamui and tapped his finger over the dark-haired young man's lips. "We'll see." He smiled. "I have a feeling you'll love tonight. He's special, this one. I could tell."

"That's what you always say."

"Like I said." Fai winked, and tipped his fedora in a way Kamui knew could make—and had made—ladies swoon to their deaths. "You'll see."

* * *

In a series of high brick apartments, in the innermost rooms, Subaru Sumeragi walked steadily down the halls, carrying a briefcase at his side and a warm gun at his other. The sparse men, similarly dressed and armed, that stood speaking quietly in rough, accented voices in the doorways he passed looked at him in a mixture of respect, wariness, fear, and slight disgust.

He entered the room at the very end of the hall, entered without knocking, and closed the unlocked door behind him, shutting out the little light left in the building completely. With the glow of the setting sun leaking in just by the only window in the room, Subaru could make out the outline of the man seated behind the desk—the only set of furniture in the worn room. He pushed the briefcase over the desk, toward the man. As he made to speak, the man spoke first, quietly and huskily, "I can smell your gun."

"There was some trouble."

"Not much, I hope? You don't seem hurt."

"No, sir. They were, though."

Subaru could hear the man smile. "Come round the desk."

"Yes, sir."

As Subaru rested his gun on the desk, and came around it, complying to the order and letting the man pull him down by the tie, until their faces were inches apart, the sun shifted enough so that the man's face was seen. Subaru watched as Seishiro Sakurazuka smiled at him beatifically. "What's with the uptight talk? What did I do this time?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Well, now." Seishiro's smile touched Subaru's lips—in the literal sense only, as Subaru's face remained solemn. "Calling me sir…it doesn't sound as bad after I have the chance to become accustomed to it. It's rather becoming. If it's put into the correct contexts, that is." He reached up and pulled Subaru down further, kissing him lightly on the mouth. "Look at that. The sun's already going down. I believe it's time for bed. What about you?"

Subaru ghosted a smile. "Yes, sir."

It was known throughout Kazeshi that Seishiro Sakurazuka—from the moment he'd appeared on the speakeasy scene—had always Subaru Sumeragi by his side. And it just so happened to be known that Subaru had a right, dangerous shot. There were even more rumors circulating that Subaru was Seishiro's "doll". His lover. But they were only ever rumors. Anything otherwise, and the person would strangely disappear.

Rumors, however, were rumors. There were only two things that mattered when it came to judging around these parts of the city, and that was alcohol and money. And when it came to Seishiro Sakurazuka and his mob—the mob that ruled Kazeshi—alcohol and money were there for the taking, for the selling, for the buying, and for the stealing.

Plus, Seishiro's mob was the only one that had managed to coexist and trade and partner with the one from Kyoringo without breaking into territorial war. And whether one was involved in underworld matters or not, territorial war affected all those in the vicinity. No one was safe. Not men, not women, and not children. If you were a man, you could be shot. If you were a woman, you could be raped or prostituted. If you were a child, you could be raped, sold, or shipped—if you were lucky, you'd be recruited as a "newsboy".

No one wanted territorial war. Not the people of the cities, and especially not the mobs. As much as the citizens hated and feared and admired in a twisted way the fashions that these mobsters lived their lives, and envied the money they brought, none of them ever spared a thought about the fact that these mobsters, like Seishiro, had more riding on than just a life.

To these people, all the say were the faces on the Wanted posters pasted throughout the cities, whispering and gossiping about who would be caught, when and where. Throughout the country, in conservative suburban neighborhoods, everyone was watching what the mobs, and the mobsters who ran them, did. Seishiro knew it was they themselves who provided every pathetic well-bred, trimmed-grass, law-abiding citizen in this country with excitement enough to keep them alive. It made these citizens feel as though they were some part of the glamour and the infamy.

Seishiro always had hated authority. Hated law. Hated conforming.

He loved crime. Loved snubbing authority right up the nose. Loved breaking every law there was just because he could. Loved being Wanted.

* * *

Head Police Chief Kurogane You-ou banged his fist on his desk, right over the face of a masked man's Wanted poster. He scowled down at it, peeled it from the desk, and shoved it in his vice-chief's face. "What the hell is this?" he asked. "Do you know what this is?" With every word, he was getting angrier, meaning his city accent was steadily growing thicker and harder to understand. "Do you _know_ what this is?"

Touya Kinomoto stepped back a few paces and tried his best not to mimic the head chief's scowl. It took everything he had to keep his face from contorting in a similar manner, but he knew that he had to keep his temper under check, as the chief certainly never did so. "A Wanted poster of Kurokamen?"

"No." Touya could practically watch the steam shooting out of Kurogane's ears and nostrils. "No. Kurokamen is dead, you halfwit. He's been dead. I know that you are new. But just because you are new does not mean—" Kurogane banged his head on his knuckles. "All right. Here. This one is Shirokamen. Remember?"

The vice-chief hid his offense at the way he was being spoken to. If they were going to work at this, one of them had to simmer his temper down, and since it wasn't going to be Kurogane, it might as well be Touya. Even if Touya had more reason that Kurogane did to have his temper shooting up through the holes, Kurogane was the one in charge, and thus, Touya would have to keep it low. "We've never even seen him, sir. No one's ever seen him." But Touya didn't tack on to the end what he wanted to so dearly: _Instead, we would be better off searching for someone who has loved ones to actually miss him, and someone who is in real existence._

"Not yet," Kurogane growled. "But we'll see him soon, and soon happens to be tonight. So you better get the rest of 'em armed and ready. I've got full proof that they are going to be heading over to Kazeshi tonight."

Touya absentmindedly fingered the edge of the frayed poster, staring down at the masked face—the fedora was tipped jauntily on his head, and the black and white quality made it seem even sketchier. But it was obvious that the airy strands that seemed to float around the covered face were pale—probably blond. "It might be false information."

"It's not false this time around." Kurogane fiddled around in his desk drawers for a moment, and came back up with a shiny bullet in his palm. He rolled it around below Touya's sight. The chief's red eyes locked seriously with his subordinate's darker ones. "That gunshot case last night, 'member? I said it cannot be anything else but one of them. And I was right. Someone used loaded dice against the Kiunjin—I asked around."

Touya's eyes narrowed as he slowly took the bullet and held it up to the light. "Cleaned?" Kurogane nodded. "Was the man identified?"

"It was just another crap shooter. He would have been caught and thrown behind bars anyhow. He has family, but I do not think they'll mind so much that he has kicked the bucket."

"Whoever it was," Touya paused, looking back at his chief, "He could've returned home that night a broke man, but a man alive. The Kiunjin is one good hell of a shot. He has a temper, that one. Will he be on the load to Kazeshi, too?"

"Yeah. All of them will be there. The full lot. Aiyoku will be there," Kurogane said, giving Touya a significant look.

Touya blinked and scowled, hitting his hands down hard on the edge of the desk. "I will not—"

"I know. It's just a warning—just a reminder," Kurogane said, taking his gun from the wall and slinging through his belt. "I lost over ten officers to him, and you're too damn good to lose. So don't be an idiot tonight—we got no room for mistakes. Get my hat, for me, will you? Every single face on those Wanted posters will either be behind bars or shot through by sun-up."

* * *

_A/N: Okay. We've got some things to establish before I do my usual review-begging. First off, the thing with New York 1920s speech that I've noticed is that they almost never use contractions. If you watch the way they talk in Guys and Dolls, it's rather hilarious with their "can not"s and "does not"s and so on. They use contractions, but only the minimal. Secondly, I didn't like how this chapter turned out, but I usually never like how my first chapters of anything turn out, as it takes at least four to five to ten chapters for me to get the hang of characterizations and things whenever I'm starting a new series, especially a historical fic. Thirdly, if you notice, even though the two big cities were New York and Chicago, I'm not using American terms. I'm not even using correct timeline-ing and stuff like that. I'm just using the setting. As in, yes, there are two cities, and once you get both their names, you can try to figure out which one is which, by translating them. (Cookies to whoever can). And fourthly, I'm quite proud of the sadsobstoryzomgscandalous past that I've come up with for the characters (Fai) in this one, and I hope all of you are satisfied, because it's a bit more twisty than the one in Secrets. So once again, none of this takes place in America, there is no America and New York and Chicago. I'm just using the situation of the cities and the concept to create sort of an alternate way of it, y'know? _

_Anyway, I've also noticed that you all only review when I ask (like in Secrets, after that, in Intrigue and Compelled you seem to have neglected me 0_0) So I shall beg now once more: Reviews? _

_(And I'm only putting this up because the poll convinced me to, sort of. So reviews might convince me to write and put the rest up simultaneously while I'm doing Compelled and Unveiled.)_


	4. Foreign

Chapter –10: Foreign

The blond boy clutched at his brother, his twin. They were cramped into the tiniest, dustiest corner in the room. All around them were creaking, spring metal beds, boys running around wildly, shouting and laughing and some of them just lying on the floor, looking as dead as corpses. But they were all very much alive, even if some of them didn't want to be. A few of the boys in the room wore well-to-do newsboy clothes, while others were dressed in white, robe-like rags. Orphan clothes.

The twins wore neither—they were still in the clothes they'd slept in just last night, just until the morning, when two heavy-set men had bound them and gagged them and dragged them away from their screaming, crying, begging mother. Their mother, who they knew they'd never see again. Their mother, who'd lost her husband, parents, sister, brother, and twin sons in the span of two weeks. They'd only been in this country for a month.

Only for a month had they been in this country that promised opportunities, freedom, land, wealth, success, happiness. Instead, the promise was exchanged for racism, discrimination, crime, sickness, filth—everything that they'd already had in their home country.

The twins didn't bother crying—or rather they didn't want to. They were too old to cry. Eleven was far too old an age for boys to cry. They didn't even need to cry anyway. They didn't want to. They didn't have to. No matter how much they felt as though they would. It'd already been half a day that they'd sat curled up in the corner like this, not knowing where they were, what they were here for, or what would become of them.

Fai gripped his twin's hand harder and breathed the taste of dust in and out shallowly. He glanced up as the footsteps they'd dreaded came nearer. The other boys had ignored them up to this point—except for the few that'd dared to glare at them for their singling fair hair. But a boy now approached them, older than they were by three or four years, and with shoulder-length hair—sleek and black and clean.

The stranger boy knelt down before them and offered his pale hand. He smiled—Fai thought he had a wonderful smile. His gaze wasn't warm—it was rather cool, covered with ice tracks, frozen—but Fai thought his smile brilliant enough to make up for it wholly. "My name is Ashura." The way he spoke was slow, steady, and there was a slur to his words—foreign, just like they were.

Fai had learned enough English to make-do with introductions—to a certain extent, at the least. "Fai. I am Fai." He shrugged one shoulder, nudging his twin. "This is Yuui. He is…my…brother," he continued—broken English. He took Ashura's hand, unsure of what to do with it. In his country, men kissed women's hands.

Ashura forwardly threaded his fingers through Fai's hand and his smile this time reached to his cold eyes. He glanced at Yuui briefly, offering a welcoming nod, but his line of sight swiftly returned to Fai. "You have hair…" he said, "You have hair like…" He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Fai's eyebrows creased in bemusement. "Ah, like this." Ashura reached into his pocket with his free hand and held a small ring—just a plain band of pale, white gold—before the twins' eyes. "We can be friends?"

Yuui locked eyes with Fai, and Fai's heart thumped as he looked back to Ashura. "Yes. Friends."

* * *

_A/N: These are just like the ones in Secrets. They're "Negative chapters" as TheRecorder dubbed them. Which means, this one, for example is Chapter -10, meaning it happened 10 years before the main storyline. I got the idea from the way Tite Kubo did the Turn Back the Pendulum arc in Bleach. Anyway, this one is super short, but they'll get longer as more happens. And they won't all necessarily be in chronological order. It depends on whose past I'm playing in. Ashura, Kamui, Fai, and Subaru all have interconnected pasts, and they're all different ages, so the timelines will be a little varied. _

_And don't worry. When it starts to get superconfusing I'll give you a cupcake to make your head feel better, and so you hopefully don't send me a blowtorch via express mail. _

_Reviews._


	5. Lust

Chapter Two: Lust

Kamui leaned tiredly against the cold tinted window of the automobile. He was seated at the corner of the seat, his head titled back, hair splayed against the headrest, the Gatsby nearly falling off. He shifted uncomfortably, the gun hidden in the inside side of his breeches clanging hard and icy on the skin of his leg. He didn't even know how to use a gun—all he knew how to do was pull the trigger, regardless of aim. It was just there as a precaution, as Fai had told him so many times, before tucking it in whenever they went out.

It was Fai who was the real marksmen. Like Ashura, Seishiro, and Subaru, Fai had been raised in a country where you learned how to hunt as soon as you were weaned from your mother's milk. If you didn't hunt, you didn't eat; and for the males, if you couldn't shoot true, you might at least learn to shoot yourself.

Not Kamui. Kamui was all foreign and exotic in only appearance—in all honesty, he'd been born and bred in this country. And just because of that, and because of what he'd been through, he could literally do nothing—save for his intelligence. That was the only thing that he took refuge in, otherwise he might as well be some street whore. Intelligence, Kamui and the others always had had. But education was something that they all grappled and grabbed and snatched as hard as they could much later on.

He closed his eyes and let himself relax into the bumps and ridges as the vehicle raced towards Kazeshi—they couldn't be even a second late. The trucks were behind this first automobile, and after the last truck—there were three in total—there were two more automobiles, side-by-side. Fai sat beside Kamui in this one, while Ashura was in the driver's seat. Doumeki and Yukito drove the last two automobiles; they had numerous underlings loaded in the three trucks, along with the alcohol—an amount large enough to keep a speakeasy going for over four months, at the least.

Kamui felt Fai's eyes brush across his cheek. "We're almost there."

"I know the way," Kamui replied irritably. "You've never—"

"You've never looked so anxious," Fai smiled infuriatingly. He twirled his fedora on one finger. "I might even go as far as to say that you look quite _nervous_ for tonight. You have a gun. You should relax."

Kamui turned away, his eyebrows creasing. "I'm not nervous. And having a gun doesn't make you feel any safer—it _shouldn't_, anyhow. Especially when you don't know how to work the damn thing."

Fai merely raised his eyes, and faced Kamui, sighing with a different sort of smile. "I've already asked you too many times to count—I could teach you, you know. But you always refuse. Perhaps if you took me up on the offer one of these days—or maybe even Ashura, or better yet Subaru—then you wouldn't have anything more to fear now, would you?"

"I don't want to learn," Kamui touched the place at his calf where the gun was hidden. He cast his eyes straight and closed them. "I don't need to."

Fai blinked and rested his head in the nook between the headrest and the window, just as Kamui had previously done. He smiled up at the roof of the automobile and lightly fingered the thick white piece of cloth around his throat. In just a moment's notice, he'd be raising it up to cover his face—as he'd done so many times before.

* * *

"You aren't shifting on your feet—that's good."

"Why would I do that?"

"A lot of new ones do that. It helps them stay sane for the time being."

"I have no intention of going _in_sane. It would be a waste of my superior intellect."

A pause.

"I was kidding, sir."

"I see. But you have humor. That's good, too. It keeps others sane for the time being. And it might keep you alive a bit longer."

"Which is even better."

"In some situations, certainly."

Fuuma glanced at his boss—his _new_ boss. Seishiro smiled right back. It was hard to decide who was stranger, Seishiro or Subaru. At the moment, Fuuma thought it was a quite close draw, but according to most of the ones in this mob, it was Subaru who was stranger. Seishiro had his eccentricities, but who didn't? Whereas Subaru apparently was just…strange. He kept too silent. Which, apparently, wasn't a good thing.

Although, Fuuma also highly suspected that the rest of the men were simply suspicious about the fact that Subaru was so close to Seishiro, and possibly envious that Subaru might be getting more than the fair share of dough. But all suspicions and envying and shadiness had been pushed aside when the others had seemed to realize that Fuuma was new. Because every single one of them—except for Subaru, of course—when they'd first entered Seishiro's group, each of them had gotten a "welcome" at the first trade with Kyoringo's mob.

If Fuuma had gotten the facts straight, Shirokamen would be coming tonight to transport the newest batch of alcohol they'd acquired, in exchange for the speakeasy money Seishiro had made from the last six months. And unless Fuuma was a daft fool and the other men were liars, then Shirokamen would have a whore awaiting for Fuuma tonight.

But this was what confused Fuuma: when he'd repeated back to the men what they'd said, and used the word "whore", all the subordinates had lashed out at him with almost a chivalrous anger. They refused the term whore. This one wasn't a whore, they all said. This boy was an angel.

So they'd said.

Moreover, Fuuma wasn't quite sure he would like a male whore. He'd only ever had sex with women. And he'd never used a whore before in his life. The others had outraged at that, too, but he had his reasons for this one—and he wasn't moving an inch. But using this whore wasn't a choice—it was an obligation. It was mandatory. And if Fuuma didn't join Seishiro's group, there would be no point in anything that'd happened last year.

At the moment, Fuuma was standing beside Seishiro, in the lobby of their headquarters—a building of apartments that Seishiro had bought more than a decade ago—with Subaru at Seishiro's other side. Subaru was stroking the barrel of his gun rather intensely. Fuuma's own gun was lodged firmly at the interior of his suit, ready to shoot whenever needed.

The doors just before where they stood were guarded by two of the lower subordinates—a few steps down from Fuuma's position—and they would open them as soon as Kyoringo's group parked at the sidewalk. It was nearing midnight, which meant that the streetlights should already be shining down on a sleeping city. Except, of course, for the crapshooters. And just as Seishiro had also informed them, a few underlings were ordered to take Shizuka Doumeki from Kyoringo and tour him around the city to find a floating game.

Fuuma had never had much taste for gambling, but even he knew—without any word of mouth—that Shizuka Doumeki was born to gamble. The man was known to the police as the Kiunjin. Even the authorities recognized him as someone who not only wouldn't lose, but he _couldn't_ lose. It was impossible. Whatever deities were up there just loved Shizuka Doumeki a little too much.

Seishiro's eyes slid toward him. "You should relax. You are the last person that should be all tensed up. Tonight is a night you'll definitely enjoy."

"Sir, I have already—"

"I have had at least ten new subordinates that have been more than reluctant to participate in my more than generous welcome gift," Seishiro's eyes glinted as he smiled brighter than ever at Fuuma. "But ever single one of those subordinates had enjoyed the night so much that I do believe they'll never forget it. Even though you shouldn't believe everything the others say, you can trust them on this one. You do not have to like men—because he is not just a young man."

Fuuma would've argued far more and far deeper, but Subaru was beginning to look at him and that in itself was never a good sign. Subaru's eyes never laid on anything for more than a maximum of five seconds other than his gun and Seishiro. "They're here," Seishiro said pleasantly, after watching the contact between Subaru and Fuuma.

Fuuma tightened his hand into a fist in his pocket and turned his gaze ahead. The first man through the door was Yukito, whom Fuuma had first met half a year ago when he'd first been invited to joining the Kazeshi group. Yukito smiled and nodded silently in Seishiro's direction, bowing his head slightly as he took a stand beside Subaru.

The next four men filed in just as silently from out in the darkness to the dim, orange glow of lamps within the building.

Fuuma had seen Ashura Ou and Shizuka Doumeki before, many times. Theirs were the iconic faces of Kyoringo. Insignificant suburban aphids knew their faces. They were posted all over the newspapers and on ever Wanted poster in sight. Young and handsome and deadly and with so much potential, but of all things, they had to choose to be mobsters. Those insignificant suburban aphids that all wanted these men for their daughters were the ones who said it was such a waste.

The leader of the Kyoringo group, Shirokamen, walked in slightly behind Ou and Doumeki. He was a slender figure with his white, silk mask stretched from the collar of his suit all around his head—masking not only his face, but his hair, as well. And in great contrast with the obvious affluence displayed in his clothes, the fedora perched at an angle upon his head was completely fourth-rate. As though it'd gone through generation after generation of wearing. It had class, undoubtedly, silver stripes and black cloth, but it was old and that contained even more doubtlessness.

The only part of this man, for even his hands were gloved white, that Fuuma could see—that anyone could see—were his eyes. And as far as Fuuma knew, those eyes were all that needed to be seen.

They were round. They were beautiful. They spoke. And they were the clearest, palest, most brilliant blue that had ever reflected life on this earth. Or so was Fuuma's opinion, at least.

And no, it didn't hurt a bit that they were framed by spindly, dark lashes and pale, milky eyelids.

"Good evening." No accent. And that voice. It matched the eyes, Fuuma thought. Amazingly. The blue eyes flickered toward his golden ones. Even with the mask, Fuuma knew from those eyes and the tone of voice that Shirokamen was smirking at him in great amusement.

"'Evening," he replied, smiling back with as much surety as he could muster.

Shirokamen's eyes sparked and his head turned, gesturing the last young man forward. Fuuma set his gaze on the face of the dark-haired young man—no, really, he was still a boy—and felt his eyebrows rise. To say he was beautiful would be fitting and appropriate and right, because he was. But to say that that was all he was would be a great shame, because it was the sort of beauty that looked perfectly fine and brilliant in photographs, but it had to be seen through live eyes to truly be able to empathize just what this boy was.

"This is Kamui," the Shirokamen said. "He'll be with you for tonight."

Kamui looked up to Fuuma. He was dressed oddly—in newsboy attire for some reason. The lashes that framed his eyes were so dark and thick that Fuuma could almost count every single one as they curled up against his pale eyelids. And then there was the matter of Kamui's eyes themselves—were they gray or blue? Fuuma watched slowly as Kamui stepped closer—one, two, three—and slipped his thin hand, childish hands, into Fuuma's contrastingly larger ones, and pulled him gently toward the elevators.

Seishiro watched the doors close after them, and turning back to the Shirokamen, he put his arm around Subaru's waist and smiled. "So," his eyes flickered to Doumeki, who was already tipping his hat and disappearing with two other men and a handful of dice, "now that we are all settled, how about we have a drink? I have got a lovely place in mind." He raised his eyebrows at Shirokamen.

The blue eyes simply smiled.

* * *

Fai was used to speaking through his mask, and conveying his expressions through just his eyes—and if the person he was speaking with didn't catch on, then that was all the better for him, wasn't it? If he didn't feel like speaking against the hot cloth, then Ashura would speak for him. Ashura followed him wherever they went, and they knew that they wouldn't be the first not to trust Seishiro wholeheartedly, as wise men never did.

He was also used to what Seishiro called "affection" and what other people would deem fit as a first hand public offense against personal space. Of course he was used to it. With what he'd done for a living, it would be shocking if he weren't. And knowing Subaru made the entire job that much easier—that much simpler and cleaner. Subaru trusted them, and even if they couldn't trust Seishiro, they definitely trusted Subaru.

At the empty bar, Ashura was seated on Fai's one side, and Seishiro at Fai's other, with Subaru guarding the front door. The bartender had placed their drinks on the counter, and already, she had disappeared. Fai removed his fedora, placing it beside his drink, and pulled off his mask—shaking out his hair and letting the air fall through. "Mm," Seishiro hummed appreciatively. "How old are you again?"

"Old enough," Fai smiled complacently. "Now." He watched Seishiro take out a cigarette, placing it in his mouth casually as he lit it. Seishiro raised his eyebrow knowingly, and putting the box of cigarettes into his pocket, switched them out with a bright red box of cinnamon sticks—the sort one would grate into cake batters. He proffered it to his guest. "Thank you," Fai murmured, his long fingers wrapping over the tip and pulling it out slowly.

In turn, Seishiro watched as Fai placed it between his lips and slid the spice to the side. It was a mutual understanding that Seishiro would never offer Fai a cigarette—always having a box of cinnamon sticks at hand—and in turn, Fai allowed Seishiro to keep the knowledge of the reason why Fai preferred the oddity of cinnamon sticks in place of cigarettes while remaining alive and relatively unharmed. "I have three truckloads in waiting," Fai continued quietly, his tongue silently lapping at the rough texture of the cinnamon stick. "How much do you want?"

"All of it," Seishiro smiled. "We had a productive season—what with sights being set on Shirokamen, the underworld population seems to have taken great morale in that sort of thing. You have made us lucky, as always."

Fai used his cinnamon stick to stir his drink. "You flatter me." He turned to Ashura and raised his eyebrows. Ashura lowered his eyes in acknowledgment and retrieved a ring of keys from within his suit, sliding them down the bar counter towards Seishiro. "The keys to the safes," Fai said, coming back round to face his colleague.

Seishiro made his hand out to accept the ring of keys, but swerved, his fingers intertwining with Fai's. He upped an eyebrow. "It is lucky they are gloved. Personally, I think you're getting rusty. All my teaching is going to waste—and I worked so hard on—"

It was simultaneous and it was just slow enough for Fai's eyes to catch the shadowed blurs. When Ashura's gun touched Seishiro's head, Subaru's gun touched Fai's.

"You first," Subaru said stoically.

Ashura didn't move. He just smiled. "Are you not supposed to be guarding the doors? What happens if Mr. Policeman walks in on this little scene here, hm?"

Silence.

Then, Seishiro laughed. "Let go of Fai, Subaru, and come here." He glanced up at Ashura and smiled. "That way, you can let go of me." Subaru took his gun from Fai's scalp at the same time Ashura released Seishiro, walking back to his boss. Subaru went to stand beside where Seishiro sat; the mob leader snaked around his underling's waist.

And through all of this, Fai's expression never twitched. It was the same frighteningly sunny smile. He merely looked up at Ashura when the subordinate came back to stand with him. "Want to go now?" he asked beatifically.

Fai clasped his hand within Ashura's and shook his head. "Kamui still has to do his part, remember? And besides, we all know how Kamui loves to take his time." He glanced back at Seishiro. "Isn't that right?"

* * *

Once Kamui heard the young man close and lock the door, he looked around the room. While it was apparent that rather than choosing a spare, already-made room, this new subordinate had chosen to bring Kamui into his own bedroom, the others had always done differently—at times even taking him to the showiest hotel within the city.

Three guns were slung against the wall, directly over the headboard of the bed. The bed itself stood at the center of the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs and books and metal cases—most of which Kamui highly suspected were containers of more weapons still. Although the room was large enough, the air carried an almost stifling scene of sweet alcohol; it wasn't necessarily unpleasant, but it was more than unnerving.

Kamui kicked off his newsboy boots and sat on the bed, watching the man deal himself a glass of the prohibited liquid and down it in one go. "Don't men normally get extra inebriated before sex if their partner is too plain for them to stand?" Kamui inquired casually, resting his cheek in one hand.

He turned and grinned. "And what? You think you are so good-looking?"

"Maybe." Kamui leaned back on the bed. "What do you like?"

"What are my options?" The man turned the lights down, slipped off his shoes and stood between Kamui's legs.

"Anything as long as it's within the boundaries of reason and safety." Kamui smiled and tilted his head to one side, looking up at the young man's face. "So how about you take a seat? Then we can get started. Unless…?"

The man shook his head and shrugged, grinning back every dare Kamui's expression threw at him. "No. Fine." Rather than sitting down beside the boy, he placed one hand at the back of Kamui's neck, and his other hand moved to loosen his own tie.

Down they both went.

Kamui had done this before. Kamui had done this more times than he could remember. He'd done this more times than he really wanted to remember. And that was the point. The more times he did this, the more he wouldn't remember the faces and names, and thus, the more he wouldn't care. As the man's fingers traced lines on his skin, Kamui finally felt at home. It was shameful and disgusting and abhorring, but here—_in bed—_was really the only place he felt he was of any use. That he was wanted. It was what he did, and he did it well. More than well. Brilliantly. Exceptionally.

And as the man's lips and tongue gentled down against the insides of his thighs, Kamui just put another black cloth over his mind. He knew that all the men Fai assigned him to during these biannual visits didn't think any of him. He'd even seen two or three of them married to some expectedly gorgeous, city flapper a few weeks or months after.

Certainly, it was the night none of them could or would forget, but it was just that, in reality. A night. One night. Few of them ever pursued him for anything more, and the ones who did always gave up or tired of the chase soon after—a week at best. Maybe if Kamui didn't refuse all of them so harshly, things could be different. But Kamui would never accept—if he did, when they left, he'd be the one remaining and looking pathetic. And he'd die before he'd have that happen.

Kamui grasped the man's tie and brought their lips together again. That was enough depressing contemplation and self-pity for tonight. Tonight wasn't supposed to be about him. It was about this young man, right here. It was about all the hard-work Kamui knew he had to have done in order to get into Seishiro's group. Seishiro was as sly and slick and cautious as any gangster about town, and with twice the experience Fai had. Whoever this young man was—the young man that was kissing Kamui and touching Kamui and undressing Kamui as though they only had hours left to live—he deserved this night, and like all the others, Kamui wouldn't let him forget it.

The man's lust seemed to escalate on a slope—higher and higher until they were at the border of the peak, grabbing Kamui and groping Kamui and putting his hands and fingers on every part and _in_ every part of Kamui he could find and reach. He was leaving Kamui nothing short of breathless and lusty and hot and somewhat exasperated. The exasperation, however, was clear in the back of the prostitute's mind. It was a dormant thought—how this young man, first looking at Kamui in the lobby as though he were a punishment rather than a gift, and now surely leaving marks on Kamui that would have his clients for the next week wondering if he had some S&M fetish.

"Wait…" This man was heavy—he was covering Kamui's body with his own, pinning him to the bed with all his weight. Kamui could only gasp the sentence, his voice tinged with an embarrassing desperation. "W-wait…could you"—

_On my…don't! _

"—for just—"

_Gasp because his tongue is there._

"—a second…?"

"No." And when the man looked up, of all the nerve Kamui could ever imagine a cheeky, new subordinate could possess, this man beat it all, because when he looked up, he was grinning from ear to ear, licking the wet _Kamui didn't dare think about it_ from his lips and wagging his eyebrows at Kamui—Kamui, flushed, hot, and aching from head to toe for something to go in before he burst into smithereens.

_Tongue? Touch me. _

The man covered Kamui's lips before he could utter any words of further indignation. Kamui was reaching and reaching and reaching his hands around the man's shoulders, but the man kept moving—searching and worshipping and moving and dancing his hands and fingers all over Kamui's body. And the room just continued to get hotter and hotter and _hotter _until it was barely possible to breathe and all the way until—

"No—I'm serious, please, you have got to wait—!"

_Stop? Gasp. _

Kamui's head fell back, and his eyes went wide—the silence ringing in his ears.

_My God. Big. _

He heard the man laugh softly, so softly and so kindly and so gently, into his ear as he pulled out and dove back in and out again and in again and out and in out and in out in out in out in like a steady rhythm even though Kamui was far far far too far gone to think about anything as complicated as that he just knew that it was out in out in out in out in and it hurt but every time always hurt a bit at first but this was a new hurt because it hurt more than it felt good and that was just strange but now it was good just as much as it hurt and they were the same amount and oh this was scary and it hurt but it was so good and—

_Oh. Wow. _

The man inhaled sharply at the same time Kamui saw a flash of white and felt a flash of that perfect cross between pain and pleasure, and the man pulled carefully out—careful more and careful still to catch Kamui and gentle him into an untwisted position on the bed.

_Kind? No. Too kind. Please don't._

Kamui felt the man's fingers lightly skim the strands of hair close to his ear. "Wow," the man whispered, a chuckle at the base of his throat. "No kidding, huh?" Kamui rolled his head around with the infinitesimal amount of energy he had left to meet eyes with the man like he hadn't done all night. Beautiful golden, syrupy eyes.

_Please don't. Please do. Please don't. Which?_

"I have not told you my name, now that I think about it." The man smiled. "Have I?"

Kamui inhaled and exhaled a shaky breath—shaky because this man could do the deed like no other man could and because it was so amazing that it was frightening more frightening than amazing and because his mind could no longer form comprehensible thought because it was just scary how this man was how he acted how he touched Kamui as though he cared and how he was talking because most of the others never even touched Kamui after the sex was done let alone give their names and it was just—

_Beg you. Don't. Just don't. Wait. No. Do. Don't. No, do. Which?_

"Name's Fuuma Monou. Don't yell at me, but I'm just making sure. You are Kamui, right?"

* * *

_A/N: Well, that was a long one. And just making sure that you've all got this down: the Subaru in here is the X version. I mean, the older version, in other words. Like in the Secrets series, it's the TRC version, clearly. But not in there. I need Subaru to be one of the older ones, so thus, we've got hot, grown up, sexy X!Subaru. Y'know, rather than beautiful, adorable, TRC!Subar-uke. And since this is a long chapter, I hope you'll feast upon it while I go and try to trudge through the murky swamp that is Compelled. _


	6. Allure

Chapter –6: Allure

"What?" Kamui frowned, tossing his Gatsby up into the air and catching it in a bored manner. "Are you sure Kyle spoke to you right? That doesn't sound very…real at all. And why me?" He looked round to Fai and Yuui for an answer, even if Ashura was the one who doled out the information. The twins shrugged and continued on trying to knock each other off of the rickety chairs in the shared bedroom.

Ashura continued to watch the twins for another long moment, smiling, and then turned to Kamui with raised eyebrows. "I heard Kyle fine. And I know that Kyle was the one who recommended you to this person. You are becoming one of the best, after all. A better newsboy than even Fai." Upon hearing that, Fai stuck his tongue out before proceeding to tackle his brother onto the bed. "He's a wealthy customer. What could it hurt? You do not have a choice anyway."

Kamui looked into his lap. "I know." He was just starting to observe the linen fibers in his breeches when a pale, slender hand appeared on his knee, and he widened his eyes to see Fai kneeling before him—lively blue eyes, scarily flawless smile and all.

"You aren't sulking, are you?" Fai said, resting his arm on Kamui's leg. He smiled and hoisted himself up, both hands now on Kamui's legs. "Or wait…you aren't nervous?" The sun seemed to shine straight from the pale golden strands flying this way and that right from Fai's head. Kamui couldn't answer. He could only watch Fai smile and laugh and touch him, just like Ashura and Yuui could only do. Just like everyone—even the customers Fai delivered to—only could.

Fai was just like that. He was so alluring, he even somehow managed to allure his brother to such an extent—Fai was more Yuui's baby than anything else. Yuui followed Fai like a ghost—followed him to his deliveries, and helped him before and after. But of course, Yuui was immune to the allure to a point, whereas Ashura was just being pulled in and in and in and deeper and deeper and harder and it never stopped.

In a way, Kamui pitied Ashura. He was in no way a character to be pitied, but his obsession for Fai was. Or "love" as they might put it. Although Kamui didn't believe in that sort of love, and certainly not between newsboys, especially since they were the age they were. Either that, or he was just absurdly jealous that Fai had everything—the best clients, the best rooms, the best treatment, the most spending money—and then also had Ashura.

But like everyone else, he also couldn't help but love Fai. Love him intensely.

"I'm kind of nervous," Kamui said quietly. And he was. It wasn't all that rare that some customers requested a recommendation newsboy as a long-term deliverer, but it was usually something rare that the boys who went ever came back. Kyle kept his newsboys safe, but some newsboys…well…became too attached and opted to leave. And no one ever really saw any more of them. In other words, no one really knew what happened to them.

Fai reached up and kissed his lips so lightly, it was less of a kiss and more that their lips simply touched. "Well, you shouldn't be." He stood up and twirled around, his hands resting behind his head. Kamui couldn't see his expression now, but from the tone of his voice, he was livelier and more perfect than ever. "Ashura, when does Kamui have to leave? I want to help get him ready."

Ashura was standing beside the bed that Yuui was perched on. All four of them were wearing their newsboy attire. "In just a few minutes—ten, at most," Ashura said, as Fai more or less floated his way up to the eldest boy's arms. Kamui watched as the blond head tilted to one side, looking up into Ashura's eyes—Kamui watched as the dark eyes misted over.

"But I wanted to help him get ready," Kamui could just barely hear Fai murmur—most likely right against Ashura's lips. "That isn't enough time. It'll be well and good if we end up a bit late, right? You can tell them for us, right? Please?" Kamui closed his eyes and looked at Yuui's left ear when he heard the two kiss. And he continued to stare at Yuui's left ear—which was slowly reddening at the following sentence—when Fai further spoke. "I love you."

Kamui looked back when he thought it was safe. Ashura now just had his hands on the small of Fai's back, their faces still undeniably close to one another. "Sure," he heard Ashura say softly. "I'll do that. Go ahead. But please…not too long?"

Fai laughed, and kissed him again. Keeping one hand fisted around Ashura's right suspender strap, he turned to Yuui and Kamui, smiling. "We have to get Kamui ready. Yuui, go to my room and bring Kamui with you. You know where everything is."

Yuui stood up, not speaking until he was beside Kamui. "Are you coming along?"

"Of course." Fai turned back to Ashura. "Just give me a few minutes, please." Yuui and Kamui couldn't walk faster, but they could certainly shut the door with a rather offended slam.

* * *

By the time Fai had gotten back from whatever Kamui didn't want to know they were doing, and Yuui and finished on Kamui, he had been scrubbed until his skin was raw and oiled and perfumed until he was sure the customer would have a royal headache when the delivery was through. But it was no wonder Fai had all of these ridiculously expensive items in his and Yuui's rooms. Even if Yuui didn't deliver regularly, he was Fai's twin brother and Fai's substitute. They Fluorite twins were more prized than even Ashura and Seishiro.

Kamui knew he was just as beautiful as they were, but he didn't have the almost creepy…something they both possessed that kept the customers continually asking for them. Even at this moment, as he walked down the streets, alongside Ashura, he was terrified that he would disappoint the customer.

He glanced up, looking at the back of Ashura's sleek head—how the hair fell just so beneath the Gatsby. And the more Kamui looked, the more he couldn't help but wonder. How did Ashura and Fai have sex? Because it was more than obvious that they did—even though it was highly forbidden, and if Kyle actually caught them red handed, hell would surely arrive.

"What?"

Kamui blinked. Ashura raised an eyebrow, and repeated, "What?"

"What?"

"What." It didn't sound like a question, anymore now. Ashura laughed and smiled. "You do not have to be so nervous. I was just about to ask you the reason you were staring at me for. I could feel it burning a hole through my head."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Ashura laughed again. "No. It doesn't matter to me. But…why?"

Kamui looked straight ahead—Ashura had fallen into step with him—and attempted his best not to turn red. He didn't blush as easily as the fair-skinned Fluorites, but he blushed easily enough. "I…well…it was about Fai. And you." He gauged Ashura's expression. The head newsboy simply shrugged and inclined his head for Kamui to continue. "Do you…?"

"Well, yes. We do." Ashura placed his hands behind his back and shrugged one shoulder. "Is that all?"

"You do know that it's…?"

"Certainly."

"And that if you were…?"

"Of course."

"But you still…?"

Ashura smiled sadly.

Kamui's mouth fell into an "oh", and he was silent. But still, he had to think—his mind still wondered. What did it feel like to have someone love you? What did it feel like to love someone—the same someone who loved you? What did it feel like to be able to touch someone _like that _whenever you wanted and for…no money? To touch them because you wanted to and because they wanted you to—because it was you and not because you were young and your face was the face of a seraph. What did it feel like to have someone who would die for you?

"Here it is." Ashura jerked his head up, indicating the door to the penthouse that shadowed them against the setting sun. "Your customer resides on the seventh floor and within the third room from the left. His name is Senryuu Kurohyou." Kamui appraised the building with frightened eyes, and jolted when Ashura's hand appeared on his shoulder. "Good luck," he said softly, smiling. "And relax. Fai will kill me if I let you go in there as nervous as this."

Kamui wisely didn't say about how he thought Fai would probably rather kill himself than Ashura. He simply spat out a "thank you" and trudged on to meet Senryuu Kurohyou—his customer for the next…year.

* * *

Kamui had imagined that Senryuu Kurohyou would be at least thirty, probably married, and with at least five children, and out of his mind bored with his scarily successful life and fortune. Instead, Senryuu Kurohyou was eighteen, engaged, with no children and out of his mind bored with his father's money and his father's successful life and fortune, all of which he would inherit when his father kicked the bucket.

Senryuu Kurohyou was also incriminatingly and dangerously brilliant with dark blond hair that fell stick straight over and around his eyes and touching the crook of his shoulders and nape of his neck ever so. And his eyes shone like bloodied silver in the light of the setting sun that streamed through the windows. The closer Kamui walked across the plush carpet in the vast bedroom—toward Senryuu, seated at his desk—the more Kamui thought that his face was carved like a cat. Feline and perfect and so devilish. But much, much too beautiful.

Kamui couldn't even breathe, as Senryuu simply smiled and held out his hand, gesturing to the bed. He could only obey, and walk silently and trembling and move to sit on the edge of the bed that was three times as big as any of the boys back home had. And with a canopy. Of course with a canopy.

He kicked off his shoes, and watched as Senryuu stood up agonizingly slow, the silvery silk robe wrapped around his body swinging against the floor, and turned off the lights, closed the curtains, until only the slightest, yellow glow covered the room. With that same painstakingly slow pace, he walked toward Kamui and a smile spread on his full lips. "Ka-mu-i," he said softly in a voice that Kamui drank with his ears. "Correct?"

The newsboy could only nod.

Senryuu knelt in front of him, just as Fai had done only hours ago. He looked up from beneath his dark blond bangs and smiled flawlessly. "You are awfully young," the city accent coated his voice in a different way than it did to all his other customers. "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"So young," Senryuu murmured, almost to himself, rather than Kamui. "And how long have you been making deliveries?" The way he let the last word roll in his mouth made even Kamui blush.

But wait…why was there an interrogation before the…? "Since I was eight." Kamui suddenly inched away from the edge of the bed, sitting farther back. Senryuu felt too close—the heat coming from him was too hot. Much, much too hot. It wasn't a burning heat, but rather a slow, melting warmth. Gradual, but stifling.

Senryuu's eyes—his beautiful navy eyes—were…wait. His…navy? Weren't they silver? They were silver in the light. Kamui looked intently at them—into them. They were pained and hurt and so sad. But he himself was still smiling right up. "That is _immensely_ young." Kamui flinched, only slight, when the large hand went up to cup his cheek.

"It didn't hurt," Kamui lied defensively. "And aren't you young, too?"

That made him stare, his lips parted in surprise. And then it made him laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh. Laugh like Fai and Ashura laughed. Carefree and perfect and alluring. "Not nearly as young as you. When I was your age, my mother wouldn't let me go outside after dark. She was afraid I would get robbed because it's such a large city."

Kamui smiled. "Oh. I don't…aren't I supposed to be young? All my customers always say that being small and young is a good thing…for…" he looked down into his lap, at his clasped hands. "For what I do."

Senryuu abruptly grabbed Kamui's hand and threaded their fingers together with an almost violent roughness. His eyebrows were knotted together tightly. "Never let me hear you speak like that again," he said. "I know you do not do what you do because you want to. And I might be a spoiled young man, cocooned in his father's world, but I'm not stupid. You were eight—of course it hurt. And someday, you'll be a young, powerful man, and whichever one of those customers was unkind to you, you'll throw them to prison."

Kamui's eyes widened, his eyebrows knitting up at the center. His shoulders began to cave in. No one had ever spoken to him like Senryuu was. It wasn't…frightening, but it was so…different. Unnerving. Disconcerting. He didn't know if he liked it…but he knew he definitely didn't _dis_like it. But it made something in his stomach clench and tighten. And…it felt…good. The strangest sort of good he'd ever felt.

"Are we still…" he dared to continue in a tiny voice, "going…you're not going to…then…?"

Senryuu laughed again. Angelic. Seraphic. Perfect. His eyes were gentle—so gentle. Silver or navy or whatever color they were. "Do you want to? It all depends."

For the first time in four years, Kamui felt like a complete whore as he nodded, staring into his lap again all the while. He closed his eyes shut for a few seconds, waiting for Senryuu's response. When none came, he whispered, "I know I'm a—"

"Young boy who's forced to sell himself, and is about to get taken by a recklessly bored and awful young man?" Senryuu finished, with a light smile. He touched the tip of Kamui's ear and tugged teasingly. "Has anyone ever let you know that you need to relax?"

"Once."

"Well, now it's twice." And with that, Senryuu straightened and kissed Kamui long and deep and warm and perfect and brilliant.

If Fai was alluring, so was Senryuu. The only difference was that Fai was taken and Senryuu was just engaged. Engaged. Kamui would have to remember that. Senryuu had some pretty girl in the wings, waiting to marry him and raise a family with him. Kamui was just some boy on the sidelines. But even so…

Allure was allure.

* * *

_A/N: I should warn you. If you read the Secrets series, I highly recommend keeping an eye on Senryuu. Especially with Compelled going on and Unveiled coming up. _


	7. Cinnamon

Chapter Three: Cinnamon

When Fai, Ashura, Subaru, and Seishiro returned to the base building, Kamui was already clothed and seated on one of the armchairs in the lobby, looking determinedly straight ahead, and not at Fuuma, who was standing behind him, seeming quite amused by this all, and quite sated. Doumeki, on the other hand, is seated beside Kamui, counting the green bills in his hand with utmost concentration, before rounding the hefty load up with a rubber band and tucking it into the recesses of his suit jacket.

Fai eyed Ashura and then eyed Doumeki, and after both men had headed for the door to round up the cars—the signal meaning that it was time to begin the trip back to Kyoringo—he slid into what'd just been Doumeki's seat, right beside Kamui. "So," Fai began, tipping his head all the way back to smile at Fuuma. "How was it?"

Kamui didn't move—didn't twitch or show any sign.

Fuuma grinned. "Excellent, thank you very much."

Fai laughed, and tugged Kamui's Gatsby over his eyes. "I'm immensely glad to hear that. Kamui's never failed, so I was a little worried when I heard from Seishiro about how adamant you were."

"I just needed some convincing." Fuuma shrugged, still grinning. "That's all."

Kamui wasn't listening to any of this. He was still reliving the horror that had grabbed within his chest when, post-coital and still regaining their breath (and in Kamui's case, the ability to walk), Fuuma had asked him with those six dreaded, awful words.

_When can I see you again?_

And even after the next hour or so, Fuuma still hadn't seem to be able to comprehend that he wasn't going to see Kamui again. Ever. Not in the way he wanted to, at least. Kamui didn't understand how Fuuma hadn't been able to understand that even though he was a beautiful one and a male one and not a common street one, he was still, very much, a whore, when all pretty words were aside.

Therefore, using that branch of logic, Fuuma couldn't sleep with him again—or be with him again—because the next time Kamui came to Kazeshi, it would be to sleep with the next new subordinate.

And really, Kamui didn't see anything in the near or far future—or ever—that indicated any reason why Fuuma would want to repetitively be with a whore who'd slept with enough men to build an army. Possibly a navy alongside.

"Well, considering Kamui's apparent preference to remain sitting rather than stand so we can get home before sunrise, I would think that he convinced you fairly well," Fai said, eyeing his friend. The comment snapped Kamui out of his thoughts and earned Fai a well-deserved glare. Fai simply tugged the Gatsby playfully lower over Kamui's eyes, and Shirokamen watched amusedly as Fuuma's eyes sparked as he looked on.

In a way that was far from positive.

Fai sighed a sigh of deceiving happiness and stood up, keeping one hand on Kamui's shoulder, fingers digging below the left suspender. He nudged his head toward Yukito, who'd reappeared near the side of the elevator. "Will he be returning with us again, Seishiro?"

The Kazeshi leader shrugged. "No." Then he smiled. "Unless you need him?"

Fai shot the smile back. "We're fine. But in the case of our next meeting, and in lieu of the recent rumors surrounding the district's immensely…ah…uncooperative police force, I believe it would be best if we take someone new with us who can be a back-and-forth. Someone that the police doesn't know the face of, if you catch me?"

"Sir," Yukito cut in.

Subaru threw him a look, and adjusted the lapel of his suit enough so that his gun clinked. Yukito fell silent.

"If you wanted to take Fuuma, you could have just asked," Seishiro said lazily, once again, allowing one of his hands to trail up and down Subaru's side. Fai might've even caught his hand going up the back of Subaru's suit. "He's new, so do not blame me if you get thrown behind bars because of him."

Fuuma remained silently grinning. Kamui did not.

Fai, however, simply looked from the new subordinate that he'd just promised to take under his wing, and to his friend, who he'd been to hell with and back. And all he did was smile angelically as he pulled his mask over his face.

* * *

There were a number of ways to reach Kazeshi from Kyoringo without having to take a train. But out of all those ways, if one was a local, then one would know that there were, more specifically, two easiest ways to reach the destination of the windy city without having to pay the expensive fare of a train ticket.

And whereas the first way involved monotonously long driving over a rather flat plain of nothingness, the second way was quick, slightly bumpy, but nevertheless far better and less boring and painful than the drive of monotony that was so infamously monotonous, it was rumored that the monotony was enough to drive even a scholar insane.

But although most locals only knew those two ways—and almost always chose the second, if they valued their sanity—some locals, some underworld locals, knew of a third way.

This third way involved using the dead of night, backtracking every four miles, and driving at a heady angle through numerous illegal tunnels, but if it was done right and done enough times, it would be as easy as driving straight ahead in bright sunshine. And although completely illegitimate and dangerous and almost nearly fully unknown, by sheer chance of fate, Kurogane had found out about this third way, and he knew that after staking out the second way for more months than he could count, this third way was surefire of catching Shirokamen and his group.

And after that, taking down Kazeshi would be simple.

Which meant that at the moment, Kurogane was presently encumbered in what he hoped was an inconspicuous cargo truck parked against the left wall of the tunnel, waiting until Shirokamen came through so they could intercept the vehicles and put silver cuffs around the criminals' deserving wrists. And if they were lucky, Kurogane could use his much-abandoned gun, which hadn't gotten shoot anything in over half a year besides the occasionally oversized beetle that managed to crawl into his office during a summer heat wave.

He glanced to his right and upon finding that Touya might or might not have fallen asleep, took the barrel of his gun and brought it down hard over his coworker's head.

"DAMN!" Touya whipped around and brought up his hands incredulously, as if asking what could possibly be the matter with Kurogane's sanity and consideration of others' physical wellbeing or lack thereof.

"Did you fall asleep?" Kurogane said.

Touya peered at him oddly through the darkness. "No!"

"Oh. All right." Kurogane tucked the gun back in. "Make sure you don't fall asleep any more. They got to be coming soon."

"I was not asleep in the first place!" Touya threw his hands up.

Kurogane simply shrugged, and they both turned back to watch out of their respective windows.

* * *

On the way back, Fuuma drove one of the rear cars—which Kamui was more or less stuffed unceremoniously into—and Doumeki drove the other, while Ashura went on to once again drive the leading vehicle, with Fai in the passenger seat. The trucks were driven and loaded with the same men that they'd used on the way there, and although they usually rested along the way and back—making it a total of three days, rather than one—Doumeki expressively expressed that he had a crap game to float on extremely soon. And when Doumeki expressed anything, it had to be a grave matter of even graver importance.

Fai found the heart to make an exception and bypass every hotel, even though he would much rather sleep the night off, rather than spending it driving back, and that there were certain risks with making this fast of a journey. And there were only two things that reassured him whenever there were risks involved: first, the fact that he was Shirokamen, and second, the fact that he had a gun snugly tucked into the inside of his breast pocket.

And even that didn't guarantee the fact that the others would come out alive—and not imprisoned—but Fai had long since learned that losing one or two of your men was merely something that went with the money and explicit nightlife. It was just a matter of which men you didn't care to lose and which men you absolutely couldn't stand losing. Rather than worrying about all of them and assuring all of them came out with their lives and without arrest, worry about the only ones completely necessary to you.

It would save your life and theirs.

Fai extricated his gun and appraised it. It was the most recent and modern version of the automatic revolver. On the market for less than two decades. He'd asked for ten to be specially commissioned for him and his mob. The extras were given as gifts to Seishiro and whomever he'd deemed fit to have one.

Still, the gun and all of Fai's own philosophies and mantras that he'd ingrained to himself since that one fateful day five years ago did little to ease the blossom of fear at the back of his mind that never really seemed to dissipate. No matter how hard he tried through all of these years—five years seemed like twenty—it never went away. The small nagging feeling that anything, something, somehow would go wrong despite all his planning.

He moved the cinnamon stick in his mouth from right to left.

It terrified him more that he still had too much life left to live. Most of him simply wanted to die sooner or later—mostly just sooner—so he wouldn't have to live with that constant little pest gnawing at his mind for the next seventy years or so. He'd rather die while he was young. At the least, his corpse would be beautiful, and he would die happy, rather than old and wrinkled and slightly disgusting.

"Ashura," Fai said quietly, his eyes narrowing at the dark road ahead.

"Yes?"

"Could you pause at the side for a bit?"

Ashura looked at him oddly. He swerved the car to the side of the road and softly landed into a stop. They waited for the others behind them to catch up and follow at their lead. Fai leaned back and glanced out the window, waiting until every car and truck was accounted for behind them in line. It was the best possible place to convene—directly before the start of the lengthy tunnel. The tunnel was always a source of thrill and dread for Fai as it took slight of hand and swift of mind to navigate through it alive—and with one's vehicles whole.

Both men removed themselves from the car, stepping out. Doumeki, Kamui, and Fuuma were fast approaching them, as were a few other underlings from the trucks. Fai left his mask—and his, by now, much worn cinnamon stick—in the car. The night was dark to cover his face—there was no moon tonight and the city lights were still close enough to shed the stars. "What is it?" Fuuma asked.

"There are tracks in the road," Fai said, his eyes glowing. "Tracks that are left when someone inexperienced with the tunnel leaves. Normally, if you skid properly, no tracks are left, because the wind that blows at an angle never fails to cover them. And it's part of ever member's—Kazeshi or Kyoringo—initiation to learn how to drive through the tunnel."

"It's the police, then?" Doumeki muttered.

Kamui brought his eyes up wide until his thick eyelashes were colliding against his eyebrows.

"What difference do we do even if it is?" Ashura said this, looking down at Fai with a smile. "We out chase them—is that all there is?"

Fai looked out at the faces of his underlings—all nervously shifting from foot to foot, the emotion out of place with their confident suits and fedoras. Then, he glanced back at his men. "No. Tonight, let's _engage_ them. Besides, there's no other reason for them to be here than as a stake out. They intend to bring all of us cuffed and chained to justice by dawn."

None of his men or his subordinates laughed at this. None of them even smiled.

Apparently, they failed to see the obvious humor that was causing Fai to brightly grin. And they clearly couldn't see any bit of the excitement that caused Fai to laugh and throw back his head. "There hasn't been any _fun_ in so long," he explained, reaching out to grasp his hands around Kamui's wrist, tugging the prostitute in for a kiss that tasted like wind and cinnamon. "Tonight. We _let_ them chase us."

* * *

Kurogane elbowed Touya in the ribs. The vice-chief jerked to life indignantly. "What the hell…?" He looked to his colleague, annoyed. "What is it now? I do not see why you constantly have to harass me—"

"Be quiet," Kurogane growled, his red eyes alight. "And start up the car. The boys'll follow—they've been told the orders, yeah? Look at that up ahead—we're following that right there, all things be damned." He elbowed Touya again for good measure and began jabbing his finger at the lone vehicle speeding ahead past them on the tunnel, drifting and skidding and sliding all ways.

Touya stomped on the pedal and swung the steering wheel around and followed the car. He'd only learned the way to drive through this tunnel hours ago and he was terrified to death—it was a tunnel filled with the devil's laughter, he swore. He didn't know why Kurogane couldn't do this instead—he was more manic than Touya and the rest of the team put together.

They sped down through the tunnel, eyes intently on the road and even far more intently on the little black spot ahead of them in the night—speeding down faster than it should be possible to maneuver in this type of surrounding. Touya could feel his heart punching and kicking against his chest and the silence suffocating them was so thin that he could've sworn he could even hear Kurogane's heart trying to break through.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Again, Kurogane's accent had approached such ferocity that even Touya—Kyoringo, born and bred—nearly couldn't understand him. "This stupid, damned car can drive faster than this, you idiot! For the life of you, you'd better drive faster, we're losing them!"

"How do you intend to make them pull over?" Touya muttered back, turning side ways and attempting not to get them flattened against the tunnel's walls. "Your gun cannot possibly hit that far. You might hit one of them even if we do get close enough!" He knew his arguments weren't coming out in the most intellectual way, but it took all of his concentration just to keep them intact and whole, much less string together pretty, fanciful words.

Kurogane grinned. And the moment Touya had enough time to chance a quick look at his leader, he felt his stomach drop to his ankles. It was the grin that everyone on the district's damned police hated. That feral grin that meant more than anything that Kurogane couldn't any more care about what was really the object of the mission. He just wanted to use his gun now.

"Just get close enough," Kurogane said with that stupid, damned grin.

But orders were damned orders and Touya swerved the car as much as his terrified common sense would permit him—they could hear the sirens and shouts behind them now, and apparently there was more than just this one car—now the criminals were following _them_, trapping them.

There were only three other cars filled with policeman other than this. Kurogane had told Touya to order them to move only when there was a sign that Touya and Kurogane might need help. They hadn't thought that there would've been more than two mobster vehicles. Any more and they thought that some civilian would've noticed—as gangsters weren't known for their subtlety nor for their modesty.

Touya closed his eyes and jammed the steering wheel to the farthest right it would go, slamming into the car that they were now neck-in-neck with. Kurogane hit the car door on his side, punching his gun through the glass of the window and sliding himself out, the air whipping through his hair. "You're damned hell insane!" Touya roared, loud enough so that the bastard could hear him from the wind that came automatically with this speed of motion.

Kurogane just saluted him, grinned, and swung himself fully out of the car, completely deaf to tall of Touya's curses.

* * *

Ashura's head whipped around to glance at Fai, and Fai's head whipped upward as a heavy weight thumped down on the roof of the car. Fai slid his gaze smilingly to Ashura, and Ashura raised an eyebrow as he drifted the car back and forth, the ground groaning beneath the tires. "Go ahead," Ashura said softly, his eyes checking the mirrors and grinning at the wavering car pursuing them. "And have fun."

Fai pulled on his mask, his gloves, and tipped his hat. And he said, "Will do," with a tone full or smirk and a hand full of cocked gun. Ashura watched as he kicked through the window's glass and swung himself out.

"Doumeki will not be happy about that," he said to himself with a smile as he slowed down just enough for the poor driver in the car behind them to catch up. After all, there was always the mercy rule, and if one giving chase was too far ahead, than it wouldn't be any fun, now would it?

* * *

Kurogane steadied himself on the roof of the car, the walls of the dark tunnel passing by him as sickening blurs. He didn't quite know what possessed him to do this, but he had a feeling, as he watched the slender figure—dressed so impeccably in a suit and a white mask—slip out from the window beneath and steady his own self on the roof, standing a ways from Kurogane, gun at the ready, blue beautiful eyes glowing.

"How are you doing?" he grinned, his gun aimed at the white mask.

Shirokamen's blue eyes eased. "Good evening."

"You do not have the Kyoringo. Nor the Kazeshi." Kurogane nodded his head at the unaccented voice. "Not from around here, huh?"

The white mask seemed to glow amongst the night and the dark, gray blurs of the tunnel. But the blue eyes glowed far more. The wind and sounds of the chase behind them whistled past their ears. Shirokamen, Kurogane swore, was laughing at him.

And the peal of light laughter that came seconds after that thought was merely proof. Kurogane only aimed his gun firmer. It'd be shameful if he heard that laughter any more—the most perfect, ringing laugh. He didn't want to have it haunting his mind—the way it was already starting to imprint itself scarily in his ears. This…this _was_ Shirokamen, right? It wasn't Aiyoku?

_Yes._

It reaffirmed itself, Shirokamen did, when Kurogane found himself held fast with his stomach and face against the roof of the car, his own gun clinking against the side of his forehead. Shirokamen's gun was digging into his chest. And Shirokamen, the damned bastard himself, was peering his sinfully blue eyes right at Kurogane's red ones. At that distance, Kurogane could see every bluish vein embedded into the pale eyelids.

"A penny for your thoughts, dear chief?" The eyes smiled.

This wasn't Aiyoku, certainly. Aiyoku was lust, and so was this man. But this man wasn't just lust. This man was lust and _death_.

With a kick and a twist, Kurogane had regained his gun and sent Shirokamen rolling to the edge of the car, nearly falling to a speedy, painful, gravelly death. But the blue eyes sparked and he was soon up on his feet, gun once again aimed between Kurogane's eyes. The only difference now was that Kurogane at least had proved his competence and his gun was re-aimed over Shirokamen's heart.

"Look at that," Shirokamen whistled mockingly—it couldn't be sincere; it was the worst whistle Kurogane had ever heard—less of a whistle and more of just blowing air. "We're even now, I suppose. Aren't we, chief?"

And then, Shirokamen began to do something that made Kurogane's breath catch.

The bastard walked toward him. _Toward_ him.

Step by step. Slowly, with his gun dropped to his side.

"What the hell are you…" Kurogane breathed, as a gloved hand reached out to him. Kurogane cocked the gun and thrust it between them—as if trying to prevent the white mask from touching him.

But he was frozen. This was the first time a criminal had tried _this_.

Shirokamen's white-gloved hand held true against Kurogane's cheek. The blue eyes alive and aglow, right at Kurogane's face. They were so close Kurogane could smell his breath through the thin cloth of the mask. Everywhere, the air between them was filled with cinnamon. "Chief," Shirokamen whispered.

With that, Kurogane's gun rolled from his hand and into Shirokamen's. "OY!"

But the flash of white had already pushed him overboard, and Kurogane felt himself grasp onto the ledge of the car, his fingers gripping onto life and his feet dangling and swinging right over the blurring road. The white mask appeared over his face and the blue eyes were almost demonically lighted. "You have nice eyes," he laughed, right in Kurogane's face. "I think they're lovely."

And he stomped on Kurogane's fingers.

Kurogane fell.

* * *

To say the least, Kurogane lived. He lived, and no more happened to him than scratches, bruises, and the gashed—slightly skinned—arm. The doctors told him he was luckier than some of his men. Most of who had received gunshots, and some who were scarred mightily. But to say that Kurogane was content with his mostly unharmed self was downright lying.

For one thing, Touya was furious at him.

And for another, the only welcome note he received when he was well enough to return to work (in other words, when the damned _doctors_ snootily deemed him well enough), was a memo from his cousin telling him that he missed her birthday and her clothing store opening just to stake out a few gangsters and get himself all beaten up.

To say the least, Kurogane was absolutely murderous. And more so, he was sent—by none other than his bespectacled upstart of a subordinate—to buy flowers as an apology for missing his adorable, female cousin's birthday and clothing store opening.

He really wasn't in the mood for this sort of nonsense. Nor did he possess the mental capacity at this point to go about town with his bandages and act civil to anyone who posed the question if he was quite all right or not. In fact, the last time someone dared ask, Kurogane's eye twitched, and that aforementioned someone was admitted to the hospital for third degree burns and a neck fracture.

Policeman, although they captured criminals, apparently weren't supposed to behave like the criminals they arrested, and so, Kurogane now had to buy two sets of flowers—one for this dear, dear, dear, _darling_ cousin, and another for the pure sop he'd injured in a fit of rage.

He sighed heavily and set himself a good scowl as he stomped through the flower shop and rang the bell, glaring at all of the arrangement surrounding him for good measure. Maybe the damned plants would wilt if he glared hard enough.

The shop owner took about five hours to show up, and by the time he did, Kurogane had started to wonder if he could get away with stealing the bouquets instead of wasting his paycheck for them. He glanced up and readied himself for the usual bombardments of "Oh my goodness, Mr. Chief, what mess did you get your poor self into this time?" as soon as the owner took a sight at his face.

Kurogane stared.

The shop owner stared back.

Kurogane blinked.

The shop owner smiled. "Good morning. Lovely day, isn't it?"

Kurogane could've sworn that some worn-out old cow of a maid owned his flower shop. Not some…some…some…guy like this. For a minute, he'd considered to begin flirting with this guy, before Kurogane realized that he was…well…a guy. Just…a really pretty guy. As in, _really pretty_. As in…_girly pretty_.

Well, he ran a flower shop. Not really surprising.

Still, Kurogane's eyes bulged as they traced ever wave of the young shopkeeper's pale blond hair—following the way the strands caressed the even whiter face, and fell into perfectly round, blue eyes. A smile touched its way over the man's fully slender lips. "What might I do for you, sir? It seems to me as if you should be the one in a hospital receiving flowers, rather than the other way around."

"Yeah," Kurogane muttered. "Well."

The owner chuckled. "All right. So then, what is it that I might put together for you? I'm afraid that since it's nearing autumn, there aren't many new comings, but we'll see what we have, if that's fine."

"Fine, yeah," the policeman mumbled. He coughed. "Yeah, so, um, I need two sets. One of them's an apology and the other one is an apology and for someone in the hospital."

"In other words," the young man clarified, "An apology, and another apology, but the second one is also a 'get well'?"

"Yeah. That."

"Excellent. Then, just wait for a moment." Kurogane watched the young man walk back through the curtains, toward the back base of the shop. He waited.

It was barely ten minutes. The shopkeeper returned with two bouquets in his thin arms. He placed them gently on the counter before Kurogane and smiled over the arrangements. "White tulips for forgiveness, and white tulips, yarrows, and peonies for forgiveness, good health, and healing. How does that sound?"

"Uh, yeah. Good. How much?"

The young man considered Kurogane's expression and laughed again. Leaning in close—swift enough so that Kurogane didn't have time to twitch away—the man said softly, "It's on the house. I heard that the chief of this district is having some bad luck, so here's to good luck, all right?" He drew away and smiled. "And here," he took Kurogane's hand and placed another tulip in it—a tulip colored red and orange and yellow all at once. "It's called a variegated tulip."

Kurogane stared at it expectantly. Too shocked to go by his manly code of honor and realize that a manly policeman should be stomping on the overly feminine flower.

"It means 'beautiful eyes'," the young man said, as Kurogane dumbfounded walked of the store, reeling from blue eyes, blond hair, pale skin, damned flowers, midnight car chases, and the scent of cinnamon.

* * *

_A/N: ...That was long. So you'd better review. Even though the last parts were utter crap, in my opinion. I'm doing this at one in the morning, so don't pitchfork me, all right? Still, it turned out like crap, but not really bad crap. Kind of nice crap, I think. I was sort of brain dead, so Kurogane came out sort of brain dead, too. It's not that he couldn't fight with a gun and stuff, it's just that when you get a faceful of Fai, mask or not, there's not really much you can do at first except stare. And pay attention, the cinnamon is a plot point._


	8. All That Glitters

Chapter –10: All That Glitters

It'd been nearly a year, now.

But Fai and Yuui barely noticed the passing. For the entire past year, they were too busy trying to forget the fact that they'd never see their family again. Too busy trying to instill in their minds that they had a new family, and no amount of crying or hitting or throwing—or attempts to run away—were going to change that. And they were too busy trying to figure out how to speak this new language in this country and adjusting to their newly appointed jobs as Kyle's newsboys.

The job, the housing, the food was all more or less pleasant—passive. It wasn't extremely elegant or the like, but it was always more towards good rather than bad. Even the company was lovely, in Fai's eyes. They had friends, Yuui and he did. New friends. Interesting friends…odd friends.

They met Seishiro Sakurazuka. As the oldest at seventeen, he was something of the head newsboy, aside from Ashura, who was the second eldest at fifteen. The other boys, some nameless to the twins and some not, were scattered throughout the ages of fourteen and six. It was quite a sly balance of ages—just before they were legal adults and just after they were old enough to be without mothers.

Seishiro was odd—all black hair and calculating eyes. One of the oddest. Or perhaps, just the oddest. But he seemed to love Fai and Yuui. And mostly just Yuui. In the way that he always reserved extra sweets for Fai's brother, Fai would say that even though Seishiro definitely didn't hate him, the oldest newsboy at least definitely favored Yuui above Fai. For one reason or another.

And then there was Subaru—just a year older than the twins. Subaru Sumeragi. Otherwise known as utterly Seishiro's property. Subaru seemed the best fit for Seishiro—Fai and Yuui learned long since their time here that boys should love boys, and not girls, because girls would only cause trouble in more ways than one—ways that no one seemed to care to explain to them. Subaru was pretty and pale—just like Seishiro in the regard of thick, black hair—with the prettiest green eyes. Bright, like the jewels Fai had once watched his mother put around her white throat.

Fai's choice of complete adoration, however, would have to be Kamui. Kamui Shirou was just a little thing of eight years old—only three years younger than Fai himself—and the most precious little thing. His lips were fuller, and his hair was darker and softer, and his eyes more brilliant than even the youngest boys present. Kyle didn't allow the boys to begin delivering anywhere out of the blocks surrounding their building until they reached the age of nine, meaning Kamui was just doing short distances—a few buildings left, and few right.

But of course, none of them were anything close to Ashura. Ashura Ou. Four years older than Fai, and with eyes that glittered like stars. Ashura was trying to learn the language, too—as Kamui, Subaru, and Seishiro were all already fluent. No one could understand Yuui and Fai's difficulty in a new country except for Ashura. And only Ashura came from a neighboring country to Fai and Yuui's own home. Their old language and customs and food and everything…they were all similar.

And while Ashura seemed to like Yuui fine, Fai knew that Ashura liked _him_ best—liked him _especially_.

It'd taken half a year of proof relayed again and again in Fai's mind to assure to himself that Ashura did like him. Half a year of Ashura offering to accompany him on his deliveries; half a year of Ashura tugging at Fai's hair and smiling; half a year of Ashura sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night with nicked sweets from the kitchens; half a year of Ashura offering to carry the bag of newspapers for him; half a year of Ashura looking at him with those eyes that glitter like stars—stars that Fai hadn't seen since he and Yuui had left their own country; because with the city lights, there wasn't any dark for stars.

Seeing Ashura's eyes glitter every time Fai returned from a delivery round made Fai's heart thud the same way it always did when he watched the stars—when he still had his family. He'd even told Ashura once.

He'd told him while they hid under Fai's bedcovers.

And all Ashura had said, looking at Fai's eyes and then the window above the headboard, with a sad smile was, "Maman told me once…that all that glitters is not gold."

Fai had glanced up at the night sky beyond the oval window. "What does that have to do with the stars? Stars aren't made of gold. Mamma always told Yuui and I are they are made of fairy dust."

"But stars glitter, do they not? That is what you always say. And gold is precious. In both our countries. And in this one, too. So perhaps…since stars glitter and they are not made of gold…maybe stars are more precious. But the more precious something is, and the more people want it, the more it hurts to lose it. Maybe holding gold above stars is better."

Fai had grown accustomed to the city lights in place of the stars he missed so much. And sometimes, this time, he believed that he could learn to love them just as he loved the stars. Before they'd left the country, their father had told him to always love their home country, but to find new things in this new, free country to love just as much. "But things hurt for a reason. The more something hurts, the more it feels good when it is right."

Ashura had tugged at a lock of his hair—the way he'd done only seconds after their first meeting, when he'd first told Fai in broken speech that the twins' fair hair was like gold—and continued smiling that sad smile. "Things hurt more than they are right."

"I can make the hurt leave," Fai had whispered. He put his fingers on Ashura's sadly smiling lips. "Smile happier. Like this." His blue eyes closed up into the brightest smile he knew how.

And Ashura had just remained still—looking sadder than ever. Sad and scared. Two things Fai had never seen him.

* * *

That'd been the first time Fai had seen such expressions on Ashura's face. The second and only other time was now. Now, when Ashura had one hand at the base of Fai's spine, as they watched Seishiro lead Yuui away to a prepared room down the south wing.

"Why can't Yuui stay with us?" Fai glanced up at Ashura, his eyes furrowing as he stroked the silk of Ashura's bed robe. "Didn't you already bathe? You'll catch cold if you don't put clothes on." He smiled unsurely, "Seishiro didn't have any clothes either…"

Fai's head bobbed as he felt the weight of Ashura's hand come down. "Come on. Let's go to my room. You haven't ever been there, right?"

Ashura's room was far larger than the one Fai and Yuui shared. The one Fai and Yuui shared was much like the rooms the other boys used—much like a room in any boarding house. Slightly cramped, wooden, rickety furniture, and a creaking bed with yellowed sheets.

This room was at least thrice that size—a wardrobe and vanity cornered to one side, a bed pushed in another, and a full-length mirror hung on the wall beside the door. The chairs and tables were all clean and white—as if someone dusted them and made them every day. There were clothes lying here and there—trademarks that a fifteen-year-old did indeed occupy the room—and Ashura's Gatsby and delivery bag hung on one of the pegs nailed into the wall.

Fai stood to the side of the door, unsure of what he should be doing, as he watched Ashura lock them in. "Over there," Ashura said, turning to him and nodding toward a small door next to the vanity, "if you go through, there is a bath already prepared. You should take it."

The eleven-year-old bit his lip. "Why…do I need to…? I already bathed yesterday. We're only supposed to bathe twice a week, remember?"

A little crease appeared between Ashura's eyebrows. He stepped to Fai and placed one hand against the boy's cheek. Fai's heart thumped. Once. Twice. He swallowed as he felt Ashura's thumb brush over the line of his cheekbone. "It will help," Ashura said softly—sadly. "Hurry now. While the water is still warm. I'll wash you."

Naked.

That was the first thing in Fai's mind. Ashura was about to see him naked. "Have you…" Fai grasped at something to bring this thought to bay. "Have you bathed?"

Ashura gave a tiny smile. He curled his fingers gently against Fai's cheek and brought his face into the dark, shoulder-length hair. So close, that when Fai blinked, he could feel his eyelashes bump against Ashura's throat. "Do you think I have? Breathe, and say."

But at this proximity, it was rather hard for Fai to remember how to.

It was more than obvious that Ashura had bathed. Fai could smell the soap wafting from him by just standing feet away—but with his own nose to Ashura's hair and throat, the scent wasn't just pleasantly floating. It was absolutely rendering Fai's entire body lifeless. A sensory overload. Fai's hands were limp at his sides. He suddenly wanted to get away from Ashura—he himself, after all, was still covered in city grime from the day's deliveries. He hadn't even had had time to change when Ashura and Seishiro had appeared after dinner, more or less dragging him and Yuui away without another word.

Fai backed a step and smiling hesitantly. "I'll…I'll bathe now."

Ashura returned the smile infinitesimally. "Yes."

* * *

It wasn't until after Fai had dried himself with the towel in the bathing chamber, and gotten out of the tub that he'd realized he didn't have a change of clothes. And that it was rather brisk, despite the fact that it was only the very beginning of autumn. He wrapped the towel around himself, and shook the droplets out of his bangs and eyes as much as he could.

He found Ashura sitting on the bed, back facing Fai. "Ashura," he called quietly. "My clothes are in my room. I haven't brought any. Should I—"

Ashura turned his head—face wiped clean of smiles and expression. "You'll not need clothes for tonight. I'll have your clothes for the morn." He stood up and began walking to Fai, and Fai—for a reason he himself couldn't explain—began to back away. The sash that held Ashura's robe closed was beginning to fall. Fai's eyes followed the line of skin that fell from the older boy's throat.

"Lie with me," Ashura said, catching Fai's wrist. "Come. Come here." Fai flickered his gaze to Ashura's eyes and his eyebrows shot up, his eyes shot wide. Ashura's jaw was set stonily—his entire face expressionless, save for the tiniest glitter in his eyes, reflecting the dim lighting in the room.

"Lie…" Fai began to repeat, subconsciously. "With…" He realized that Ashura was leading him back toward the bed. His free hand clenched at the towel around his waist. "You want me to sleep with you?"

"Yes." Ashura guided Fai onto the bed. "Lie down."

"Sleep with no clothes…? I'll catch cold," Fai protested, frowning. He sat against one of the pillows. "Let me have my clothes. I'll return. I'll sleep with you, then."

Ashura placed his hand over the small, pale hand that held Fai's towel. He dug his fingers over the knuckles gently and tugged. "Off," Ashura murmured against Fai's cheek. "Take the towel off."

Fai had sensed something terribly wrong from the moment Seishiro had led Yuui off. That sense had grown with every moment he spent alone here with Ashura. He didn't know what could possibly happen to him, but his body urged to run—his heart hammered wildly, screaming at him to move, to do something but nothing. Run. Flee. Shout. Scream.

Fai bit his lip. He looked at Ashura's eyes. They glittered, but not like stars. They glittered with something else entirely. Something that frightened Fai—something deceitful and dangerous. "No. I don't want to."

Ashura's eyes begged Fai to take his words back. "Take it off," he said again—it sounded like a plea, almost. "Please."

Fai shook his head, terrified.

Ashura sighed. His eyes were pleading again—groveling and begging. "Please." Now his voice cracked. He touched Fai's bare shoulder. "Please, Fai. Take it off. You'll understand why. Please just take it off."

Fai didn't move. His breathing stopped.

Ashura's throat contracted, and Fai could see his teeth clench. His eyes pleaded on more time. Fai still did not move. The seconds between that action and reaction seemed to slow. Thicken. Stone. Freeze.

Everything else that followed couldn't have gone fast enough.

Ashura shoved Fai onto his stomach, yanked his sash from his robe, and whipped it around his wrist swiftly, using the end to wrap around Fai's wrists. He tied them to the headboard and knotted with all the skill of a sailor. Fai hadn't had time to gasp. Ashura's eyes didn't once meet his. They remained anywhere but.

The older boy slid Fai's towel off and threw it to the floor. Fai was frozen. He didn't know what was about to happen—he didn't know what was happening. He just knew that the terror had seized his body, and he was too terrified to move. As clichéd as it sounded, it was precisely like a nightmare. When terror took you, it took all of you relentlessly. You couldn't move. You couldn't process.

"Ashura," Fai breathed shallowly against the cloth of the pillow. His scalp was cold from his wet hair, and the sweat formed uncomfortably against the back of his neck. "Stop. Please stop?"

No response.

He felt a hand at his side. Another hand between his shoulder blades.

Both of them slid down his body simultaneously. One to his lower back, and the other to curve around to grab between his legs.

_No_

Fai struggled, kicking his legs. A heavy weight landed on them. He could feel Ashura straddling his thighs—trapping him fully against the bed. His face heated as he felt Ashura—a _part_ of Ashura—move against his thighs. A private part. A part of him that no one had seen except Yuui and his mother. A private part that he had never seen except on Yuui. A part no one had ever touched. A part his mother told him to never let anyone else touch. Two private parts.

And Ashura's hand was wrapping around one, and the other hand was touching the other—fingers stroking, fingers probing. Fai couldn't think. He just felt something good and something strange. He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. Words simply fell, screaming, from his mouth. "_Non facciamo che!_"

This wasn't Ashura. This couldn't be. Ashura was soft and kind and quiet and touched Fai with small, hesitant touches. Not brutal grabs and snatches. He touched Fai's hair and called it gold, and smiled at Fai's eyes and lips and called them beautiful. This wasn't Ashura. It couldn't be.

Why was this happening—

_Gasp_

"_Fa male!_"

It hurt.

So. So. So. Much.

It really hurt.

There was something inside of him.

_Ashura_

He couldn't think. He just screamed. At least he was allowed to scream.

"_Fermare!_ _Si prega di smettere!_"

Of course Ashura didn't listen. Ashura couldn't even understand. Fai was just screaming because he hurt so much. It hurt. The pain hurt—it throbbed through Fai's body. But not just the pain. It was Ashura—so it hurt.

But it felt good, too.

That hurt more. It scared Fai.

* * *

"_Fa male_." Fai's body lay limp on top of the sheets, as Ashura untied his wrists. His voice was barely more than a whisper—barely audible at all. "_Fa male. Perche? Fa male. Tanto. Fermare. Prego_." His words tumbled out tonelessly—he himself hardly hearing them. He couldn't hear. He could hear or see or feel or taste or smell. He was too tired. He hurt too much. "Ashura. _Perche?_"

Fai lifted his head. But Ashura was across the room. Bent over the vanity. Fai swallowed, and collapsed back. He couldn't hold his head up for more than a moment, before the room began to spin, and he felt the urge to vomit. He tried to ignore the throbbing and the warm liquid dripping on the inside of his thighs and huddled between his stomach and the damp sheets. He tried to think—to translate. "Why?" he finally managed hoarsely, as Ashura walked back, in his hands a large bowl, and a bucket. He set it on the nightstand.

Ashura still had not looked at him. Not once through everything. Not once since before the bath. The older boy sat at the edge of the bed, and picked up the fallen towel. He drenched it in the water within the large bowl. "This might sting," he murmured, fingers lightly gracing the curve of Fai's back. Fai's muscles strung up. "Relax. It's over. Relax."

Fai couldn't. "_Si prega di non,_" he said, his voice breaking. He felt warmth pool into a film over his eyes. "Please. Ashura. Please don't." He buried his face in the pillow. He didn't want Ashura anymore. He didn't want to look. It hurt so much. He didn't even know what this was.

Ashura twisted around and bent, his face close to Fai's. Fai felt fingers prying his chin from the pillow. "Fai. Shh. Look. Turn. Please? Everything that hurt? I am not going to do anymore. None. I'm trying to make it better. Please turn. Just look. You can look. Open your eyes. You can cry. You'll stay here. You'll be safe. I'm safe."

Fai gritted his teeth, and moved his head, opening his stinging, damp eyes. He'd rather be blind if Ashura was going to look the way he did only minutes ago.

The dark glittering eyes were back. The dark stars. Beautiful. And sad. So devastatingly sad. "_Je suis désolé_." Ashura smiled—a thousand kinds of pain in one smile. "See? I can still speak mine, too." He touched Fai's hair. "_L'or et de beau_." Ashura stroked his cheek. "Now please, relax. Breathe in and out. If you need to vomit, I brought a bucket."

Fai breathed in.

Ashura's hand carefully slid down to that private part.

Fai breathed out.

The warm, wet towel dipped in to the hurt.

Fai gasped and closed his eyes.

"I know," Ashura murmured. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Fai repeated the question that still remained without an answer, "Why?"

"Because you are a newsboy—we all are," Ashura said, his voice soothing and low. His hand stroked Fai's cheek again, before returning to that spot between Fai's legs, cleaning and drying. "Kyle's newsboys aren't supposed to only deliver newspapers. They deliver much else. They deliver what I have just taken and done with you. As soon as they are old enough. Seishiro is doing the same with Yuui."

Fai gripped Ashura's wrist in mid-movement. "Yuui?"

Ashura simply raised his wrist and brought Fai's white knuckles to his lips. "There is no such thing as a simple life in the city. Immigrants are disposable. No one wants us. But us—some of us—are beautiful. The beautiful ones are used. While we're beautiful and young and small, we're wanted. Wanted. So we deliver. We live better."

Fai felt the warmth in his lower body fade—even though the pain remained. Ashura straightened up from the bed and knelt on the floor, his hand on Fai's upper arm. His lips wrought themselves into another smile so pained it hurt Fai to look at it. "Sleep on your stomach. The wound will heal. It will heal in two weeks. After that, you will deliver. Not only newspapers—but yourself. I tied you, I used no oil. Your customers will. The first time should always be the worst—in that way, you're already braced for anything else. Every time after this will feel like bliss."

Fai opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes were already fighting to close. "Ashura…wait…"

The older boy touched Fai's lips. "Sleep."

"Will you…?" Fai's hand gripped the blanket.

Ashura was at the vanity—about to off the lantern. He turned his head and his face fell into an expressionless smile, his eyes glittering like a lullaby. "The stars will stay with you. Goodnight, Fai."

* * *

_A/N: ...........Well. Yeah. And if any of you say that Ashura's a bastard, I'm going to drop-kick you. Kyle made him and Seishiro do this. Ashura isn't a bastard! *sniffle* He's a psycho, God! Seishiro's the bastard. But then again, we already knew that. All of the "newsboys" go through this. It's like a twisted initiation rite. Ashura and Seishiro are usually the ones doing it, since they're the eldest, but occasionally, someone else will have the honors. Or dishonors. Either one. Usually, if a younger newsboy who just comes of the age has made an older close friend, Kyle has that friend do the first time. It's to teach them that you can't trust anyone. And that falling in love with anyone--especially the customer--will prove to ruin everything. The "age" is eleven, because boys start puberty at ten--so I know for a fact that a year after puberty starts (maybe even THE year puberty starts)--kids can orgasm. _

_I used Google Translator for the translations, so if you can speak the language, don't blowtorch me. (I'll give you a cupcake...)_


	9. Blame

Chapter Four: Blame

Kamui stared up at the ceiling of Fai's room, sprawled out over the bed. He balanced a cinnamon stick on edge of his protruding rib bone—his form was white and naked against the sheets. The prostitute watched as the cinnamon stick rose up and fell down with every breath he took. He sighed, and the spice began to roll to one side, falling toward his collarbone. Catching it, he steadied it back onto his stomach.

Everyone who saw Fai always insisted that he was too thin for his own good, when in reality, Kamui was far thinner—and whereas Fai simply had a thin frame was in health so excellent he went out to hunt every month—Kamui was literally not in the best shape an eighteen-year-old boy should be. He was the youngest, and yet, he was the most delicate. But perhaps, living with men less than four years your senior at this age didn't necessarily prove strength with youth.

And having lived the rough life in the city proved nothing either. Doumeki had lived most of his life in the sleeping suburbs, and he seemed to love nothing more than to constantly prove to Kamui—and everyone else—that he was just as capable of shooting someone in the eye as Fai and Ashura were. As if Doumeki didn't already have something to shove down people's belts, what with his ridiculous winning streak.

Now, Kamui not only had to put up with that, but he had to endure Fuuma's constant presence either in his room or at his door—or just, near him, usually in his personal space. Prostitute or not, he still had a right to a foot radius of no human contact when he needed. And Fuuma was slowly permeating all of that. Thus was the reason why Kamui was more than often seeking refuge in Fai's chambers—which no one besides Ashura and he himself were allowed in without first asking.

Kamui picked up the cinnamon stick with his thumb and forefinger and held it over his eyes. He'd never been able to handle sucking on the spice for more than a few seconds, just like it'd been with Fai. Only unlike Fai, Kamui had never gotten used to it and overcame that. But he always had a stash of the sticks in his nightstand drawer—saved for whenever Fai came to his room, or whenever he came to Fai's.

It felt like he was putting the cinnamon sticks on _his_ grave. Like by giving them to Fai, Kamui was honoring _him_. That person. That person that Kamui killed all because of a single, stupid mistake. A mistake he'd never make again. He owed it to Fai and even more to Ashura to never make that stupid, stupid, _stupid_, damned mistake ever again. Of course Ashura and Fai didn't blame him—they never had. They always told Kamui it was their fault—well, more correctly, Ashura told Kamui it was Ashura's, and Fai told Kamui it was Fai's.

Kamui told himself that both were just too grief-ridden that they were unable to think properly and deduce that it was neither of their faults, and it was all Kamui's.

He whispered, "_Il mio bambino,_" and frowned to himself. It never sounded right when he said it—no matter how many times. The voice wasn't right—neither the tone nor the accent. Only one person alive could say it now, and that was Fai. The other person was dead. The person who had first loved him—far before anyone else. Far before the boy with hair of spun dark gold and alluring eyes ever supposedly did.

"_Il mio bambino._"

Kamui propped himself up on an elbow, catching the cinnamon stick in his hand, and looked up at the sound of the flawless accent and a voice identical to the one that'd spoken the endearment to him more times than he could count. Fai stood smiling in the doorway, still in the flower shopkeeper's clothes. "I always wondered why you never became irritated when my brother called you that. A young boy of eight hardly wants to cling to his mother."

"I never had one. No one had ever treated me like a child." Kamui sat up, and held up the cinnamon stick as Fai tossed the apron to the floor and loosened the collar of his shirt. He took a seat at the vanity, facing Kamui, and accepted the spice—placing it between his lips. "But Fai did."

Fai raised an eyebrow. "He thought you were lovely—just like an infant. Of course, like everything else he loved, he always looked for a lovelier name—rather than some biologic sounding name, he loved our language better. He always spoke it."

"What was it that he called you?" Kamui smiled.

"_Mio fratello._" Fai switched ends of the cinnamon. "Always, he thought our language was lovelier. I suppose he was right. But he told me once that Ashura's language was lovelier still. It _is_ the language of love."

"Ashura's is too…smooth. Too much love, even. Yours still has some edge to it. Something to root it back to reality." Kamui, after all, wasn't very fond of fantasies and romance—it was the very reason he was a prostitute after all these years. He knew that Fai knew this, too.

Fai laughed—once, and short. "It certainly enchanted Fai. Ashura had to have some advantage, even if only speaking the language of love, as my brother did more romancing than I think Ashura ever realized." He held the cinnamon between his fingers—close to the web of his hand—and sighed, inhaling the breath that reached his nose. "But how about you?"

Kamui pulled his knees to his bare chest, curling in his naked body. "What about me?"

"You have yourself quite the potential romance, presently."

"No. I have the potential romance, which you forced upon me, presently. He continues to inhabit my room. You gave him a room of his own down the hall beside Doumeki. And when I lock my room, he continues to inhabit the space beside the door. I can hear him."

"Do you put your ear to the door and _listen_ for his breathing?"

"That is beside the point." Kamui shrunk slightly.

Fai smiled and dropped to his knees, swooping up toward the bed, and catching Kamui on the lips. "_Bambino, bambino_," he cooed, precisely how anyone else would to a real infant. His hands held Kamui's cheeks while they kissed—when their lips drew apart, the hands slid down the shoulders and arms, gliding over the satiny skin to rest on bony hips. "He might like you."

"Well, if he weren't so annoying, I'd like him."

"What if he loves you?"

"I won't love him. I won't love anyone—I can't. It's pointless," Kamui said firmly. Determinedly. As though trying to convince himself of it.

Fai kissed him again. Both of them knew that the kisses weren't the same as when _that person_ kissed them. They were both still trying to fill the void—all after five years. They'd always kissed each other, but that person's kisses were always so much livelier—soothing like a lullaby and full like life.

And yet that person—once life incarnate—was dead.

Fai was dead, and it was all Kamui's fault. Kamui had killed him by making the mistake he'd never make again:

He'd killed Fai because he'd fallen in love.

* * *

Fai watched Kamui close the door behind him, as he finally left—still naked, and clutching a borrowed sheet around his body, as he always did. His eyes followed the pale line of the prostitute's naked shoulders—how the shoulder blades sharply curved—until Kamui rounded the corner, only to soon be replaced by another visitor to Fai's chambers.

Ashura stood in the doorway.

Fai smiled to himself as Kamui paused slightly, figuratively bumping into Ashura, while the older young man simply waved it off cheerily and saw the boy off. Ashura's dark eyes swept into the room and his hand closed the door behind him.

"Hm. I didn't call," Fai said, hoisting himself onto the bed, leaning back and slipping off the shopkeeper's apron, and unbuttoning the collar. "But you have good timing." He smiled. "I was just about to."

Ashura shrugged with a matching smile. "It has been about a week. That is usually, more or less, the amount of time before you call me again. It used to be less, didn't it?" The corners of his eyes softened.

Fai just continued to smile—a smile that belied nothing but deceitful content. Maybe just deceit. "Well, then won't you get on with it?" His words were at odds with the tone he used to deliver them. Completely at odds. The edges of his smile sharpened into razors.

Ashura didn't speak after that. He simply let his own smile settle dully, and leaned forward to kiss Fai. To start the arrangement that they'd made that day five years ago. A vow to never love anyone but _that person_. A vow that neither of them had any trouble honoring, because neither of them could love anyone else. So instead, they loved each other. Every night—whenever either of them wanted to—they loved each other.

It would always happen in Fai's bed.

And it was a strict agreement that Ashura would always be cleaned and gone by sunrise. Out of bed, neither one was to bring it up. Even though it was a mutual pact of silence with both of them, it was also obvious to their subordinates. But no one dared mention it. Neither Fai nor Ashura nor anyone else.

In bed, anything went. In bed, it didn't matter to Fai that it mangled his heart every time that Ashura gasped, "_Ma lumière,_" because even though Fai tried to pretend it was for him, he knew it wasn't. In bed, it didn't matter that when Fai gripped onto Ashura—his arms around his neck—for dear life, he was also wishing with tears hot in his eyes, that _that person_ would come back, because it was all his fault that Ashura was in pain. All his fault that Ashura only had five years with _that person_.

In bed, it didn't matter that Fai wished so hard that Ashura wasn't gentle—that Ashura would really pound into him, would _hurt_ him, make him bleed—because Fai knew that that gentleness wasn't for him. Even if it was, he didn't deserve it.

And in bed, it didn't matter that with every thrust, every kiss, every time fingertips ghosted, every time tongues touched—it didn't matter that Fai knew how even though that person had sacrificed his life for Fai, he knew that Ashura wished more than anything that it'd been Fai who'd died.

Or, more accurately, Yuui. Yuui should've died.

Fai should've lived.

* * *

_A/N: I know it's short, but I needed the ending to, well, end there. For impact. Y'know? Anyhow, _tsubasafanatic13 _PM-ed me that she had made a Secrets Series playlist for me, so since it'll be who knows when to update Compelled or Impulse, I'll just give her the shout out now. And if any of you want to make a playlist (since I'm in great need of musical inspiration, because without that my muse is nil) go ahead and PM/email/send-to-me-via-carrier-pigeon. _

_Also, I don't know if any of you went and read my update (probably not, so here goes), but I'm going to Canada this Friday. So if any of you are Canadian...erm...I don't really know...I'll...be in your country, I guess...? If that doesn't sound stalkerish then, *gives dorky thumbs up*. All right, then. But I'm actually excited about going there (since I haven't been to Niagra Falls and all, and we'll also be going to Montreal and Quebec) and visiting all the French peoplez. French-Canadian, I s'pose. _

_The only sad part is that I can't bring my laptop, therefore, no updates. But I'll only be gone ten days. _

_(P.S., I got my high school schedule, and the language I'm taking is now officially French. Ironic, no?)_

_(P.P.S., the chapter after next, there will imminently be some Kamui-harrassing-on-Fuuma's-part, and some Kurogane-harrassing-on-Fai's-part. Next chapter in Compelled, there will be Yuui and Kamui catfighting...AND Yuui and Kamui sex. Well, more like Yuui and Kamui sex leading up to catfighting.....I told you Compelled was going to be TEH ANGST.)_


End file.
